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WIT.  OF  CAUF.  LIBRARY*  WS 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THIS  VOLUME. 


THROWN     TOGETHER, 

BY   FLORENCE   MONTGOMERY. 
I2mo.     Fine  Cloth.     $1.50. 


"  The  author  of  '  Misunderstood'  has  given  us  another  charming  story 
of  child-life.  This,  however,  is  not  a  book  for  children." — London  Athe- 
nceum. 

"  A  delightful  story,  founded  upon  the  lives  of  children.  There  is  a 
thread  of  gold  in  it,  upon  which  are  strung  many  lovely  sentiments.  .  . 
One  cannot  read  this  book  without  being  better  for  it,  or  without  a 
more  tender  charity  being  stirred  up  in  his  heart." — Washington  Daily 
Chronicle. 


THWARTED. 

BY   FLORENCE   MONTGOMERY. 
I2mo.     Extra  Cloth.     $1.25. 


"A  small  but  very  interesting  book.  Florence  Montgomery  is  distin- 
guished by  one  very  rare  peculiarity,  she  understands  the  tragedy  of 
child-life.  Her  intense  love  for  little  children  has  led  her  among  them  so 
much  that  she  understands  their  nature  to  the  core." — New  York  Herald. 

"  Her  previous  productions  are  characterized  by  a  delicacy  of  descrip- 
tion, a  purity  of  moral  and  tenderness  of  feeling  that  win  all  hearts,  and 
'  Thwarted'  will  be  found  equally  good  in  every  respect." — Si.  Louis 
Times. 

*ix*  For  sale  by  Booksellers  generally,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage 
paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT  &  CO.,   Publishers, 

715  and  717  Market  Street,  Philadelphia. 


SEAPORT  H. 


BY 


FLORENCE   MONTGOMERY, 

AUTHOR   OF   "  MISUNDERSTOOD,"  "  THROWN   TOGETHER,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &    CO. 

1879. 


TO 

MY  FATHER 

THE    FOLLOWING    PAGES 
ARE    DEDICATED. 


2131384 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— THE  LONELY  CHILD  IN  THE  OLD  PICTURE-GAL- 
LERY             9 

II. — THE  Two  BROTHERS 14 

III.— THE  FIRST  CHANGE  IN  THE  PROGRAMME     .        .  17 
IV.— LORD  SEAFORTH'S  DEALINGS  WITH  HIS  YOUNGER 

SON 23 

V. — THE  STRUGGLE  WITH  FATE  AND  FORTUNE  .        .  26 

VI.— THE  OLD  EARL'S  DYING  REQUEST      ...  31 

VII.— HAROLD  FULFILS  HIS  PROMISE  TO  HIS  FATHER  .  34 

VIII. — LIFE  AT  SEAFORTH  UNDER  THE  NEW  REGIME  .  39 

IX. — A  SUDDEN  DETERMINATION          ....  46 

X. — THE  GAMBLER'S  HOME 48 

XL— HESTER'S  MARRIED  LIFE 54 

XII. — THE  POISONING  OF  HESTER'S  HOME-LIFE    .        .  60 

XIII. — HOW  WILL  HE  TAKE   IT? 69 

XIV.— FOR  OLD  SAKES'  SAKE 76 

XV.— MEAN  TO  THE  LAST 81 

XVI.— LADY  SEAFORTH'S  PLANS 85 

XVII. — IN  THE  LION'S  DEN 90 

XVIIL— FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 95 

XIX. — THE  MEETING  OF  UNCLE  AND  NEPHEW       .        .      99 
XX.— LADY  SEAFORTH'S  RECEPTION      .        .        .        .102 
XXL— THE  GHOST  IN  THE  PICTURE-GALLERY        .        .     107 
XXIL— THE  FIRST  DAY  AT  SEAFORTH     .        .        .        .112 
XXIIL— THE  GAMEKEEPER'S  DILEMMA      .        .        .        .118 
XXIV.— MUTUAL  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS         .        .        .        .122 
XXV. — LADY  ALICIA   FULLER/TON'S  VIEW  OF  COUNTRY- 
HOUSE  LIFE 127 

XXVI.— MOORE'S  MELODIES 137 

XXVIL— THE  MEETING  UNDER  THE  GAINSBRO'  .        .        .142 

7 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVIII.— LADY  ALICIA  FULLER-TON  REPROVED        .        .     146 

XXIX.— GODFREY  AND  LITTLE  JOAN     .        .        .        .150 

XXX. — LADY  SEAFORTH'S  PROCEEDINGS        .        .        .155 

XXXI.— THE  DEEP  SEAT  IN  THE  WEST  WINDOW         .     158 

XXXII. — THE  CLASHING  OF  INTERESTS   .        .        .        .162 

XXXIII.— A  RIDDLE  AND  ITS  ANSWER    .        .        .        .166 

XXXIV. — THE  VULNERABLE  PART 171 

XXXV. — THE  SPEECH  IN  THE  BANQUETING-HALL          .     176 
XXXVI.— WHAT  FOLLOWED  IN  THE  PICTURE-GALLERY  .     180 

XXXVII.— GODFREY  AT  COLLEGE 184 

XXXVIII.— THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  CLOUD       .        .        .187 

XXXIX.— THE  CLOUD  BURSTS 192 

XL.— AT  LENGTH  WE  MEET  AGAIN,  LOVE         .        .     196 

XLL— HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 199 

XLII.— "NOT  WANTED" 205 

XLIII. — THE  ENCHANTED  ORANGE-GROVE     .        .        .    207 

X LI V.— LORD  SEAFORTH  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER     .        .215 

XLV.— JOAN'S  FIRST  VISIT  FROM  HOME     .        .        .218 

XLVI. — THE  ASSIZES 227 

XLVII. — THE  DAISIES'  MISTAKE 230 

XLVIII. — DIVIDED 237 

XLIX.— MR.  WAUKENPHAST 243 

L. — THE  CONVERSATION  IN  THE  SMOKING-ROOM  .     249 

LI. — MUTUAL  RECOGNITIONS 255 

LII. — WHAT  DOES  IT  ALL  MEAN?       ....    259 
LIII.— IN  THE  GARDENS  OF  MONACO          .        .        .263 

LIV. — THE  END  OF  IT  ALL 266 

LV.— HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 269 

LVI. — GODFREY'S  CONFESSION 273 

LVII. — GODFREY'S  TWENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY     .        .    276 

LVIIL— THE  IRONY  OF  FATE 282 

LIX. — LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS 284 

LX. — GODFREY'S  HISTORY 287 

LXI. — EXPLANATIONS 293 

LXII. — THE  FIGURES  BY  LORD  SEAFORTH'S  BEDSIDE      296 
LXIII. — THE  MEETING  OF  THE  LOVERS  IN  THE  OLD 

PICTURE-GALLERY 299 

LXIV. — GODFREY'S  TWENTY-SIXTH  BIRTHDAY     .        .    302 
LXV.— A  PEEP  INTO  THE  FUTURE      .        .        .        .305 


SEAFORTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   LONELY   CHILD    IN   THE   OLD   PICTURE-GALLERY. 

EVERY  old  house,  it  is  said,  has  its  haunted  chamber 
and  its  flitting  ghost.  Seaforth  was  no  exception. 

Flitting  about  its  rooms  and  corridors  went  a  lonely 
little  spirit ;  but  it  was  not  sprite,  nor  shade,  nor  fairy. 
The  ghost  that  haunted  the  halls  of  Lord  Seaforth  was 
his  own  and  only  child. 

She  lived  a  little  life  of  her  own,  which  none  cared  to 
inquire  into,  among  the  relics  of  past  ages,  of  which  the 
old  house  was  full.  She  knew  no  fear  of  the  long,  dark 
corridors  and  deserted  rooms :  the  grim  knights  in  armor 
were  her  boon  companions,  and  the  cold,  silent  picture- 
gallery  was  her  favorite  resort. 

Here  she  would  spend  hours  by  herself,  playing  with 
the  pictures.  Every  picture  was  a  friend  to  her,  and  she 
treated  them  as  though  they  were  alive,  and  talked  to 
them,  laughed  with  them,  and  quite  believed  they  an- 
swered her  and  were  in  sympathy  with  her  varying  moods. ; 
The  lonely  child  had  no  companions,  and  so  made  play- 
mates of  grandfathers,  and  great-uncles,  and  great-great- 
aunts,  who  had  all  been  dead  and  buried  years  and  years 
before  she  was  born. 

But  they  had  been  children  once,  and  their  pictures 
A*  9 


I0  SEA  FORTH. 

seem  to  have  been  mostly  painted  when  they  were  merry 
little  boys  and  girls.  For  very  smiling  faces  looked  down 
upon  little  Joan  from  the  walls,  and  in  the  games  that  some 
of  them  were  playing  she  would  have  been  very  glad  to  join. 
There  were  groups  of  children  playing  on  the  grass, 
making  daisy-chains,  and  twining  them  round  each  other's 
old-fashioned  hats;  groups  of  children  chasing  butterflies 
and  dancing  on  the  smooth  lawn,  or  standing  by  the  lake, 
feeding  great  white  swans. 

Then  there  were  separate  pictures  of  companionless 
children  like  little  Joan  :  a  little  girl  with  a  kitten  in  her 
arms,  another  leading  a  pet  lamb  crowned  with  flowers, 
a  little  boy  clinging  round  the  neck  of  a  great  Newfound- 
land dog. 

But  the  favorite  of  all  was  a  half-length  picture  of  a 
youth  of  eighteen,  with  a  thoughtful  face  and  dark, 
earnest  eyes.  Under  this  picture  was  written,  "  Godfrey, 
Earl  of  Seaforth;  painted  1763."  All  the  other  Earls 
of  Seaforth  in  the  gallery  were  called  Harold,  and  she 
often  wondered  why  this  was  the  only  one  who  was  called 
Godfrey. 

She  would  talk  to  this  picture  by  the  hour.  There  was 
something  about  the  grave,  earnest  expression  of  the 
beautiful  face  which  seemed  to  invite  her  confidence. 
She  never  had  this  feeling  for  any  of  the  children's 
pictures.  They  looked  at  each  other,  or  at  their  pet 
animals  or  flowers,  not  at  her.  "  Godfrey,  Earl  of  Sea- 
forth ;  painted  1763,"  was  the  only  one  who  looked 
straight  at  her,  with  his  kind,  understanding  eyes. 

She  had  the  greatest  faith  and  trust  in  this  picture. 
She  would  put  down  her  dolls  and  other  treasures  in  front 
of  it,  when  she  was  called  away  from  the  picture-gallery, 
and  say,  "  Take  care  of  them  till  I  come  back.  I  know 
I  can  trust  you ;"  just  as  a  happier  child  might  have  con- 


SEA  FORTH.  II 

fided  its  little  possessions  to  the  care  of  an  elder  brother; 
and  of  course  they  were  there  when  she  returned.  "  I 
knew  I  could  trust  you,"  she  would  say,  exultingly,  when 
she  found  everything  exactly  as  she  had  left  it. 

She  would  not  for  a  moment  have  thought  of  entrusting 
her  treasures  to  any  of  the  other  pictures.  She  would 
play  with  them  in  her  gay  moods,  holding  out  her  hands 
in  imaginary  claspings,  or  twining  fancied  daisy-chains 
with  the  Harolds  and  the  Godfreys,  the  Joans  and  the 
Bridgets,  of  long  ago;  but  only  to  him  did  she  tell  out 
her  childish  thoughts  and  fancies,  the  mournful  regrets 
and  wondering  lamentations  of  which  her  little  life  was 
full. 

"  You  think  of  nothing  but  play,"  she  would  say  some- 
times to  the  laughing  groups  of  children  ;  "  and  I  want  a 
grave  talk  to-day."  And,  unhappily,  the  days  when  little 
Joan  wanted  "a  grave  talk"  came  round  very  often.  For 
she  knew  well  that  she  was  an  un-wanted,  unloved  child. 
She  had  had  early  instilled  into  her  that  she  was  a  dis- 
appointment and  a  mistake,  and  that  as  such  she  was 
regarded  by  every  one,  servants,  tenants,  and  parents 
included. 

For  her  nurse  used  often  to  tell  her  (and  the  story 
fascinated  while  it  saddened  her)  of  the  circumstances 
which  had  attended  her  birth,  of  all  the  preparations 
which  had  been  made  to  welcome  the  heir,  and  of  the 
terrible  disappointment  she  had  occasioned. 

"  Tell  it  me  again,"  she  would  say,  when  the  tale  was 
finished;  "tell  me  more  and  more  about  it."  And  then 
the  nurse  would  begin  again,  and  paint  a  vivid  picture  of 
the  unlighted  bonfires,  the  silent  joy-bells,  of  the  ten- 
antry separating  in  silence  and  returning  to  their  homes 
in  gloom;  of  the  depression  and  disappointment  that 
seemed  spread  all  around,  and  the  mournful  silence  that 


I2  SEA  FORTH. 

reigned  in  the  house ;  how  that  it  was  her  father  himself 
who  had  sent  all  the  crowds  away  and  forbidden  any  sign 
or  sound  of  rejoicing ;  of  how  her  mother  had  said,  "Take 
it  away :  I  do  not  wish  to  see  it." 

The  nurse  would  proceed  to  point  a  moral  to  her  tale 
by  telling  her  how  good  she  ought  to  be,  how  submissive, 
how  obedient,  to  try  and  make  up  to  her  father  and 
mother  for  the  great  grief  she  had  caused  them.  And, 
poor  child  !  she  was  as  obedient  and  as  submissive  as  pos- 
sible to  her  parents ;  but  all  this  made  her  shrink  from 
them, — made  her  wish  to  keep  out  of  their  way,  to  be  by 
herself,  and  to  see  them  as  little  as  possible. 

The  nurse  was  not  aware  of  the  deep  effect  her  tales 
had  upon  the  child,  nor  of  the  lasting  impression  they 
were  destined  to  make  upon  her,  for  little  Joan  never 
said  anything  at  the  time.  But  in  the  silence  of  the 
picture-gallery  she  would  pour  out  all  her  feelings  to  the 
picture  she  loved  so  well.  And  "  Godfrey,  Earl  of  Sea- 
forth ;  painted  1763,"  always  seemed  to  understand  and 
to  be  in  sympathy  with  her.  Every  feeling  seemed  to 
find  an  answer  in  his  earnest  eyes.  He  looked  sorry,  or 
tender,  or  pitying,  according  to  the  mood  she  was  in  and 
to  the  demands  she  was  making  upon  him.  So  infinite 
was  the  expression  the  master-hand  of  the  painter  had 
thrown  into  the  work  ! 

There  were  times  when  the  sense  of  being  a  disappoint- 
ment and  un-wanted  overwhelmed  the  child.  "Godfrey, 
Earl  of  Seaforth  ;  painted  1763!"  she  would  sometimes 
say;  "how  I  wish  I  had  been  you!  How  happy  your 
father  and  mother  must  have  been  when  you  were  born  ! 
How  the  joy-bells  must  have  rung  and  the  cannons  fired  ! 
There  was  no  hushing  of  chimes  and  sending  away  of 
tar-barrels  then  /  And  your  mother  did  not  say,  '  Take 
it  away :  I  do  not  wish  to  see  it'  !" 


SEA  FORTH.  13 

Poor  child  !  this  was  the  hardest  part  of  all,  and  her 
little  voice  would  be  choked  with  sobs  as  she  repeated  the 
cold,  cruel  words,  and  then  be  lost  in  a  passionate  burst 
of  tears. 

But  even  in  moods  like  this  the  beautiful  eyes  in  the 
picture  would  smile  down  sympathy  and  comfort. 

She  often  wondered  what  the  past  events  of  the  family 
history  could  have  been,  that  made  it  so  all-important 
that  she  should  have  been  a  boy,  and  her  advent  so 
disastrous  to  her  father  and  mother. 

Her  young  spirit  cried  out  sometimes  in  a  sudden  re- 
bellion against  the  injustice  of  her  lot.  "  Could  I  help 
it  ?"  she  would  passionately  cry,  kneeling  in  an  agony  of 
grief  before  the  picture,  and  raising  her  streaming  eyes 
and  clasped  hands  to  the  calm  face  above  her.  The 
picture  could  soothe  and  quiet  her,  but  it  could  give  no 
answer.  No  !  It  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  past ; 
could  not  tell  her  why  a  shadow  should  have  rested  on 
her  young  life  from  its  beginning,  nor  why  on  her  fair 
young  brow  should  be  written  the  cold,  cruel  words,  "Not 
wanted." 

Had  the  little  heart  not  been  so  tender,  had  the  pas- 
sionate longing  for  love  not  been  so  great,  who  shall  say 
what  evil  might  have  come  out  of  such  a  childhood? 
Who  shall  say  what  a  cold,  crushed,  and  hardened  being 
might  have  been  made  at  last  of  a  child  who  bore  such"  a 
brand  on  her  brow? 


SEA  FORTH. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   TWO    BROTHERS. 

THE  family  of  Seaforth  was  one  of  the  most  ancient  in 
Great  Britain,  and  the  property  had  been  in  its  hands, 
and  had  descended  in  direct  line  from  father  to  son,  un- 
entailed, for  generations. 

And  it  had  been  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  family  that 
it  should  have  been  so.  No  vaurien,  no  graceless  spend- 
thrift, had  ever  darkened  the  pages  of  the  family  history ; 
and  the  property  had  always  been  as  safe  and  as  sure  to 
be  handed  down  to  its  legal  heir  as  if  it  had  been  entailed 
and  tied  up  to  the  utmost  Unfits  of  the  law. 

About  thirty  years  before  the  opening  of  our  story  in 
the  first  chapter,  the  possessor  of  Seaforth  was  a  widower, 
with  two  sons.  He  was  a  great  invalid.  This  fact,  and 
the  great  distance  of  Seaforth  from  London,  kept  him 
quite  stationary,  and  rendered  the  boys'  home-life  an 
isolated  and  monotonous  one.  In  due  time  they  went  to 
school  and  college,  like  other  boys,  and  returned  three 
times  a  year  to  spend  their  holidays  at  home. 

Harold,  the  eldest,  was  a  self-contained  and  silent  boy, 
of  a  proud  and  overbearing  disposition,  with  an  iron  will, 
an  overweening  sense  of  his  own  importance,  and  a  great 
love  of  power,  but  a  boy  of  rigid  integrity  and  unsullied 
conduct.  From  his  boyhood  he  was  trustworthy,  and  his 
father  could  always  rely  on  his  word  and  on  his  sense  of 
duty  and  honor. 

•    Godfrey,  the  younger,  was  as  careless  and  light-hearted 
as  his  brother  was  grave  and  stern.     He  was  weak,  yield- 


SEAFORTH.  JS 

ing,  and  easily  led,  with  no  sense  of  responsibility,  no 
reverence  for  any  one  or  anything,  and  very  little  prin- 
ciple. To  please  himself  and  to  enjoy  the  passing  hour 
was  to  him  of  far  greater  importance  than  all  the  honor 
and  duty  in  the  world.  At  school  and  at  college  he  was 
as  idle,  as  thoughtless,  and  as  extravagant  as  his  brother 
was  strict  and  conscientious. 

Between  two  natures  so  opposite  there  could  be  but 
little  sympathy,  and  the  brothers  were  from  childhood 
always  at  variance. 

As  years  went  on,  mutual  indifference  deepened  into 
mutual  antipathy.  For,  as  his  sons  grew  on  into  man- 
hood, the  old  earl  failed  yearly  in  health,  and  lived  more 
and  more  the  life  of  an  invalid.  He  felt  himself  daily 
less  able  to  cope  with  a  wild  and  troublesome  youth,  and 
was  thankful  to  delegate  his  parental  authority  to  his 
eldest  son,  who  was  so  able  and  so  willing  to  exercise  it. 

Godfrey  chafed  against  and  resented  the  perpetual 
espionage  his  brother  kept  up  upon  him,  both  at  college 
and  at  home.  He  hated  the  austere  virtue  of  Harold's 
character.  Harold,  on  his  side,  had  a  profound  contempt 
for  Godfrey's  vacillating  disposition,  and  lived  in  per- 
petual dread  of  his  bringing  disgrace  upon  the  family 
name.  And  in  Harold's  eyes  there  could  be  no  crime 
more  venial.  He  loved  his  name,  his  home,  and  his 
family  traditions  with  a  proud  and  absorbing  affection. 
To  him  there  was  but  one  place  in  the  world,  one  house, 
one  name ;  and  it  angered  him  to  know  that  his  pride  of 
birth  and  family  was  totally  unshared  by  his  only  brother. 

To  Harold  a  life  spent  at  Seaforth  was  a  dream  of  all 
that  was  perfect.  He  asked  for  nothing  better  than  to 
establish  himself  there  so  soon  as  his  college  life  should 
be  over,  and  to  nurse  the  estate  for  his  invalid  father  until 
the  time  should  come  when  it  should  be  all  his  own. 


1 6  SEA  FORTH. 

Life  he  had  no  wish  to  see;  travel  and  adventure  formed 
no  part  of  his  plans.  His  programme  of  life  was  an  irre- 
proachable career  at  college,  a  brilliant  coming  of  age, 
a  happy  marriage  with  some  beautiful  and  high-principled 
woman,  and  then  a  useful  and  honored  life  in  a  place 
every  stone  of  which  he  idolized,  and  every  tree  of  which 
he  held  dear. 

The  younger  son's  day-dream  was  altogether  different. 
He  held  the  monotonous  life  at  Seaforth  in  abhorrence. 
To  him  it  was  the  acme  of  dulness,  pomp,  and  formality. 
His  great  desire  was  to  escape  from  it  as  soon  as  possible, 
to  enter  the  army  early,  and  so  become  his  own  master  at 
once,  and  to  pass  his  life  as  far  away  from  his  brother  as 
could  possibly  be. 

Within  a  few  months  of  Harold's  coming  of  age  (which 
in  the  Seaforth  family  was  not  till  five-and-twenty),  both 
brothers  had  succeeded  in  carrying  out  the  first  part  of 
their  respective  programmes. 

Harold  was  established  at  Seaforth,  the  prop  and  sup- 
port of  his  invalid  father,  and  the  recognized  master  of 
all. 

Godfrey  was  a  captain  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  in  every 
way  removed  from  his  brother's  control.  His  career,  so 
far,  had  been  just  what  might  have  been  predicted.  He 
had  plunged  headlong  into  a  life  of  reckless  extravagance, 
had  developed  a  passion  for  gambling,  and  already  had 
he  three  times  applied  to  his  father  to  pay  his  debts  and 
give  him  a  fresh  start.  He  was  on  the  eve  of  a  fourth 
application  when  he  was  summoned  to  Seaforth  to  attend 
his  brother's  coming  of  age. 

Godfrey's  career  had,  of  course,  been  pain  and  grief 
to  Harold.  Antipathy  had  ripened  into  dislike ;  but  an 
event  now  occurred  which  converted  antipathy  and  dis- 
like into  bitter,  undying  hatred. 


SEAFORTH. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE   FIRST   CHANGE   IN   THE   PROGRAMME. 

IT  was  within,  as  we  have  already  said,  a  few  months 
of  his  coming  of  age  that  Harold  took  up  his  permanent 
residence  at  Seaforth. 

It  was  at  about  the  same  time,  too,  that  the  old  rector 
of  the  place  died,  and  the  living  changed  hands.  A 
young  college  friend,  whose  character  closely  resembled 
his  own,  was  chosen  by  Harold  to  fill  the  vacant  place. 
This  young  man,  Edward  Stanhope  by  name,  brought 
with  him  to  the  rectory  his  newly-married  wife  and  his 
orphaned  and  penniless  sister. 

Beautiful,  high-principled,  and  full  of  character,  the 
young  girl  was  just  the  kind  of  woman  Harold  had 
dreamed  of  in  his  wife.  Before  he  was  aware  of  it  him- 
self, indeed,  from  the  hour  of  his  introduction  to  her,  he 
fell  deeply  in  love  with  her.  The  rector  and  his  wife 
were  not  slow  to  perceive  it,  and  did  all  they  could  to 
assist  and  encourage  him.  An  intimacy  sprang  up  between 
the  Hall  and  the  rectory.  Almost  daily  was  Harold  to 
be  found  there  ;  and,  for  a  time,  the  hard,  stern  man  for- 
got his  duties  at  home,  neglected  his  usual  avocations, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  winning  the  beautiful  girl  who 
exercised  so  powerful  an  influence  over  him. 

The  situation  was  patent  to  all.  The  only  person 
unaware  of  it  was  Hester  herself.  So  far  was  it  from  her 
thoughts  to  connect  anything  of  sentiment  with  the  cold, 
stern  man,  whom  she  looked  upon  solely  as  her  brother's 
friend  and  patron,  that  the  idea  of  his  being  in  love  with 

2* 


1 8  SEAFORTH. 

her,  or  indeed  with  any  one,  never  entered  her  mind  for 
a  moment.  Herself  in  the  heyday  of  youth  and  hope, 
gifted  with  tender  feelings,  quick  susceptibilities,  and 
strong  powers  of  affection  and  devotion,  Harold,  with  his 
rigid  integrity  untempered  by  tenderness,  and  his  total 
want  of  sympathy  and  imagination,  was  the  very  last  man 
in  the  world  to  interest  her. 

All  unconscious  of  the  meshes  which  were  being  woven 
round  her,  she  pursued  her  way  unthinkingly;  and, 
unfortunately,  her  way  was  such  that  Harold's  hopes 
strengthened  day  by  day. 

Her  natural  goodness  made  her  kind  to  every  one, 
Harold  among  the  rest.  She  always  did  what  she  could 
to  please  others  and  make  them  happy,  and,  at  his  re- 
quest, would  sing  or  play  at  any  moment,  and  for  any 
length  of  time,  as  she  would  have  done  for  any  one  who 
asked  her.  Moreover,  she  took  pleasure  in  doing  it, 
for  she  had  a  beautiful  voice,  and  an  inborn  delight  in 
music  for  its  own  sake. 

It  was  quite  as  much  to  please  herself  as  to  give  pleasure 
to  him  that  she  would  sing  song  after  song  all  through  the 
soft  summer  evenings.  She  would  have  done  just  the 
same  had  she  been  quite  alone.  She  was  quite  unaware 
of  him,  as  he  sat  silent  and  enthralled,  her  voice  going 
through  and  through  him  and  raising  feelings  within  him 
never  experienced  before.  And  Harold,  meanwhile,  de- 
ceived by  her  kindness  and  her  willingness  to  comply 
with  his  every  request,  deceived  also  by  her  manner  of 
doing  it,  mistaking  her  delight  in  the  performance  for  its 
own  sake  for  delight  in  the  performance  of  his  wishes, 
began  to  fancy  his  feelings  were  returned. 

And  on  this  all  his  future  hopes  now  hung.  He,  for 
the  first  time,  felt  himself  completely  in  the  hands  of 
another,  and  realized  that  that  other  had  the  power  to 


SEA  FORTH.  T9 

withhold  or  bestow  that  on  which  his  heart  was  set.  His 
whole  future  life,  he  soon  realized,  its  happiness  and  its 
success,  was  dependent  on  his  securing  her  for  his  wife. 
And  with  this  knowledge  there  crept  over  him  also,  for 
the  first  time,  a  feeling  of  inferiority.  He  lost  sight  of 
himself  as  his  admiration  increased  for  her. 

At  length  the  crisis  came ;  and  one  summer  evening 
he  made  his  declaration,  and  placed  his  future  in  the 
young  girl's  hands.  Completely  taken  by  surprise, 
alarmed,  and  slightly  indignant,  Hester  instantly  and 
without  a  moment's  hesitation  told  him  that  what  he 
asked  was  impossible,  and  begged  he  would  never  men- 
tion the  subject  again. 

The  denouement  caused  a  terrific  fracas  at  the  rectory. 
Edward  Stanhope  and  his  wife  were  at  first  incredu- 
lous, and  then  furious.  Harold  himself  staggered  under 
the  blow ;  and  in  justice  to  him  we  must  say  that  the 
disappointment  far  outweighed  the  astonished  mortifica- 
tion. 

But  his  friend  the  rector  told  him  to  wait,  and  not 
suppose  for  an  instant  that  Hester's  resolution  was  final. 
The  girl,  he  said,  had  been  taken  by  surprise.  She  was 
young,  she  was  inexperienced,  she  was  ignorant.  She 
did  not  know  what  she  was  doing.  Give  her  time,  and 
it  was  almost  certain  she  would  come  round. 

Harold  suffered  himself  to  be  guided  by  his  friend's 
advice,  and  was  once  more  filled  with  hope.  He  made 
up  his  mind  to  wait  till  the  eve  of  his  birthday,  and  then 
renew  his  suit,  so  that  he  might  on  the  same  day  be  wel- 
comed by  his  tenantry  as  their  future  master,  and  present 
the  beautiful  girl  to  them  as  their  future  mistress. 

Meanwhile,  great  pressure  was  put  upon  Hester  by  her 
brother  and  his  wife.  Arguments,  entreaties,  even  threats, 
were  by  turns  brought  to  bear  upon  her.  At  last  she  was 


20  SEA  FORTH. 

taunted  with  her  dependent  position,  and  given  to  under- 
stand she  was  de  trop  in  their  home. 

Till  this  last  means  of  coercion  was  tried,  Hester's  . 
resolution  had  never  faltered.     Her  answer  had  always 
been  the  same, — gentle,  but  decided. 

But  they  had  gone  too  far.  Her  independent  spirit 
rebelled  against  such  an  implication;  her  pride  rose,  and 
she  plainly  told  her  brother  that  sooner  than  be  the  wife 
of  a  man  she  did  not  care  for,  or  a  dependant  in  a  home 
where  she  was  not  wanted,  she  would  go  out  as  a  governess 
and  work  for  her  daily  bread. 

Edward  Stanhope  was  alarmed.  He  knew  how  fear- 
less and  determined  his  sister  was,  and  he  was  -afraid  she 
would  act  up  to  her  intention.  He  knew,  too,  how  fully 
competent  she  was  to  undertake  such  a  post,  for  she  had 
always  been  the  sharer  of  his  studies,  and  was  almost  as 
good  a  classical  scholar  as  himself,  and  well  informed  and 
well  read  to  a  remarkable  degree.  So  that  he  felt  it  was 
no  idle  threat,  but  one  she  was  as  well  able  to  carry  out 
as  she  might  become  determined  to  fulfil. 

He  saw  that  it  was  best  to  be  silent  for  the  present;  and 
he  told  his  wife  they  had  overdone  their  part,  and  must 
let  the  subject  drop  for  a  time.  They  agreed,  therefore, 
to  leave  matters  as  they  were,  and  to  maintain  a  kind  of 
armed  neutrality. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  there  arrived  at  Seaforth 
the  younger  son.  He  had  been  summoned,  as  we  have 
already  said,  to  attend  Harold's  coming  of  age.  He 
would  willingly  have  refused  the  invitation  ;  but,  being 
about  to  make  a  fourth  application  for  money,  he  did  not 
dare  to  disobey, — more  especially  as  he  thought  a  per- 
sonal interview  with  his  father  would  be  more  to  his  own 
advantage  than  a  correspondence,  which  he  felt  sure  was 
always  overlooked  by  his  elder  brother. 


SEA  FORTH.  21 

The  sequel  is  easy  to  guess.  The  beautiful  girl  at  the 
rectory  exercised  the  same  fascination  over  him  as  she 
had  already  done  over  his  brother,  and  her  position  woke 
up  all  his  best  feelings  and  roused  his  pity  and  indigna- 
tion. Certainly  no  one  could  have  been  found  who 
could  enter  more  fully  into  Hester's  feelings  than  God- 
frey Seaforth.  Sympathy,  cordial  and  hearty,  he  would 
have  accorded  to  any  one  who  shared  in  his  dislike  to  his 
elder  brother;  but  when  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  was 
in  question,  every  chivalrous  feeling  was  called  into  play, 
and  he  could  not  stop  at  sympathy :  he  must  come  to  her 
help. 

The  present  moment  was,  and  had  ever  been,  all- 
important  in  his  eyes.  No  thought  of  the  future,  there- 
fore, nor  of  the  responsibilities  he  was  incurring,  troubled 
his  thoughts  when,  filled  with  pity  for  the  forlorn  damsel, 
he  offered  to  play  the  part  of  the  knight-errant  and  to 
rescue  her  from  the  meshes  in  which  she  was  entangled. 
He  never  reflected  for  a  moment  on  his  own  position, 
harassed  as  he  was  by  difficulties,  and  plunging  deeper 
and  deeper  into  debt. 

Neither — to  his  credit  be  it  spoken — did  he  consider 
what  an  additional  burden  a  wife  would  be  to  him.  Rash 
and  uncalculating  as  ever,  he  invited  another  to  share 
his  already  fallen  fortunes,  and  to  go  with  him  to  poverty 
and  ruin. 

And  in  Hester's  eyes  he  contrasted  so  favorably  with 
his  elder  brother.  He  had  all  the  youth,  spirits,  and 
sentiment  that  Harold  lacked,  and  the  chivalrous  sym- 
pathy he  showed  towards  herself  roused  all  her  grati- 
tude. There  was  nothing  about  him  of  that  hardness  and 
rigid  love  of  duty  that  her  knowledge  of  his  brother, 
and  her  recent  experience  of  her  own,  had  taught  her 
to  dislike. 


22  SEAFORTH. 

Of  his  real  character  she,  of  course,  knew  nothing. 
Stories  against  him  she  had  heard,  but  in  her  present 
state  of  feeling  she  was  quite  ready  to  believe  he  had 
been  mismanaged  and  was  a  victim  to  his  brother's  aus- 
terity. She  magnified  him  into  a  hero.  He  was,  no 
doubt,  an  ill-treated  younger  son,  whose  father  had  been 
prejudiced  against  him.  Woman-like,  she  took  the  part 
of  the  injured  and  oppressed, — believed  him,  pitied  him, 
and  loved  him. 

Everything  was  privately  arranged  by  Godfrey ;  and 
on  the  day  previous  to  the  coming  of  age — the  day  on 
which  Harold  was  intending  to  urge  his  suit  again — she 
became  Godfrey's  wife. 

The  marriage  took  place  in  London,  and  a  telegram 
announcing  the  event  reached  Seaforth  in  the  evening. 

This,  then,  was  the  event  which  made  Harold's  cup  of 
wrath  and  hatred  brim  over,  and  change  the  whole  pro- 
gramme of  his  life. 

The  brilliant  coming  of  age,  the  happy  marriage,  the 
honored  life  spent  among  his  own  people,  with  a  beautiful 
and  beloved  wife  at  his  side, — all  these  dreams  faded 
away. 

Stunned  by  the  blow,  he  was  not  even  able  to  appear 
among  his  tenantry  on  that  long-looked-for  day.  It 
dawned  in  silence  and  in  gloom.  The  rejoicings  were 
postponed,  and  it  passed  without  festivity  or  mark  of  any 
kind.  Postponed  at  first,  they  never  afterwards  took 
place. 

From  that  time  Harold  became  more  rigid,  more  hard 
and  stern,  than  ever.  He  isolated  himself  entirely, 
shrank  from  society,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  estate  and  the  care  of  his  invalid  father.  He 
formed  for  himself  a  sort  of  mill-wheel  of  tasks  and^du- 


SEAFORTH.  23 

ties.  Round  and  round  it  went  every  day,  and  he  with 
it.  Every  hour  had  its  work  allotted  to  it,  every  day 
brought  with  it  its  special  occupation. 

One  act  testified  to  the  soreness  and  bitterness  of  his 
feelings,  but  he  never  opened  his  lips  on  the  past  to  any 
one.  This  was  to  procure,  through  his  father's  influence 
with  the  party  then  in  power,  a  Crown  living  for  Edward 
Stanhope,  so  that  with  his  departure  all  association  with 
his  bygone  sorrow  and  mortification  should  be  swept 
away. 

His  property  became  his  idol,  and  upon  its  improve- 
ment he  expended  all  his  time,  all  his  care,  all  his  devo- 
tion. In  this  life  he  became  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
completely  absorbed.  Years  went  by,  and  still  found 
him  living  the  same  life,  still  shrinking  from  society,  and 
drifting  by  degrees  into  that  eccentricity  which  seems  in- 
separable from  want  of  contact  with  our  fellow-men. 


CHAPTER    IV. 
LORD  SEAFORTH' s  DEALINGS  WITH  HIS  YOUNGER  SON. 

AT  the  time  of  the  marriage  the  old  earl  had  been  as 
furious  with  his  younger  son  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  be, 
— more  especially  as  Godfrey's  conduct  towards  himself 
on  that  occasion  had  been  marked  by  more  than  his  usual 
duplicity.  The  evening  before  his  elopement  he  had  so 
far  imposed  upon  his  father  by  a  feigned  interest  in  his 
brother,  and  even  in  his  brother's  hopes  concerning  his 
marriage,  as  to  induce  the  old  man  to  promise  once  more 
to  pay  all  his  debts,  on  condition  of  an  improved  be- 


24  SEA  FORTH. 

havior,  and  to  forestall  his  promise  by  the  immediate  gift 
of  a  check  for  five  hundred  pounds.  The  utter  want  of 
principle,  of  a  common  sense  of  honor  even,  in  this 
transaction  in  view  of  subsequent  events,  had  finally  dis- 
gusted the  old  man ;  and  as  he  afterwards  brooded  over 
the  falsehoods  of  which,  in  that  one  short  interview,  God- 
frey had  been  guilty,  he  had  lashed  himself  into  fury,  and 
had  sworn  he  would  withdraw  his  allowance,  cut  him  off 
with  a  shilling,  and,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "allow 
him  to  go  to  the  dogs  as  fast  as  possible." 

But  here  Harold  had  interfered.  True  to  his  character, 
his  rigid  sense  of  duty  would  not  allow  him  to  coun- 
tenance any  measures  that  partook  of  the  nature  of  re- 
venge. True  to  his  family  pride,  he  would  not  allow  the 
name  of  Seaforth  to  be  degraded.  True  to  the  one  af- 
fection of  his  life,  he  could  not  be  a  party  to  the  sentence 
that  would  entail  suffering  on  the  woman  he  had  loved, 
who  must  share  in  her  husband's  disgrace. 

But  by  and  by,  though  no  communication  had  been 
held  with  Godfrey,  rumors  reached  Seaforth  of  the  reck- 
less career  in  which  he  was  plunging.  Numberless  bills 
were  forwarded  to  Seaforth,  and  it  became  necessary  for 
Harold  and  his  father  to  lay  their  heads  together  and  to 
resolve  upon  a  course  of  action.  For  the  crash  they  saw 
must  come ;  the  day  could  not  be  far  distant  when  God- 
frey would  be  obliged  to  leave  his  regiment  and  perhaps 
have  to  fly  the  country. 

To  avoid  such  disgrace  being  brought  on  the  family 
name,  Godfrey  must  be  got  out  of  the  way,  must  be  made 
to  sell  out  at  once,  and  be  bribed,  by  the  promise  of  a 
settlement  of  all  his  difficulties,  to  go  and  live  abroad  for 
a  time. 

Harold  easily  made  his  father  see  the  wisdom  of  this 
plan,  and  the  proposal  was  made.  But  it  came  too  late. 


SEAFORTH.  2$ 

A  letter  from  Godfrey  to  his  father  arrived  in  the  mean 
while,  coolly  announcing  his  having  sent  in  his  papers, 
and  his  own  precipitate  flight  from  England  ;  alleging,  as 
an  excuse  for  his  "  misfortunes,"  that  the  promise  of  pay- 
ment of  his  debts,  made  to  him  on  the  eve  of  his  wedding- 
day,  had  not  been  fulfilled,  and  urging  his  present  state 
.of  utter  destitution,  and  that  of  his  wife,  as  an  argument 
in  favor  of  a  speedy  remittance. 

The  disgrace  sat  heavy  on  Harold's  soul.  The  thought 
of  the  gossip  at  the  clubs,  of  the  family  name  in  every 
mouth,  was  sheer  pain  to  him  ;  and  he  registered  a 
solemn  vow  that  Godfrey  should  never  return  to  his 
native  country.  He  who  had  disgraced  the  name  of 
Seaforth  and  brought  upon  it  such  dishonor,  should  re- 
enter  its  walls  no  more.  Henceforth  Godfrey  Seaforth 
should  be  as  one  dead,  and  his  name  should  never  be 
mentioned. 

Still,  for  the  sake  of  one  whose  fate  could  not  be  dis- 
severed from  his,  Godfrey  should  not  starve.  An  allow- 
ance should  be  made  him,  but  on  certain  conditions.  A 
yearly  allowance,  therefore,  should  be  his  still,  on  condi- 
tion that  he  never  returned  to  England.  The  moment  he 
set  foot  on  English  soil  the  allowance  ceased,  and  would 
never  be  renewed. 

To  these  stipulations  Godfrey  agreed  with  the  utmost 
sang-froid.  He  seemed  lost  to  all  sense  of  shame.  He 
settled  himself  at  Homburg,  moving  to  Ems  and  Spa 
at  his  own  convenience,  and  in  the  end,  when  the  gam- 
ing-tables in  Europe  were  closed,  establishing  himself  for 
good  in  the  neighborhood  of  Monaco. 

No  more  letters  passed  between  him  and  his  father. 
His  allowance  was  regularly  paid  ;  and  but  for  that  half- 
yearly  reminder  of  his  existence  he  was,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  forgotten  by  his  father  and  brother.  For,  the 
B  3 


26  SEAFORTH. 

stipulations  agreed  upon  and  the  necessary  arrangements 
concluded,  his  name,  in  all  the  years  that  followed,  was 
never  again  mentioned  between  them. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  STRUGGLE  WITH  FATE  AND  FORTUNE. 

IT  would  seem,  then,  that  Harold  had  been  the  victim 
of  fate,  and  had  been  forced  to  relinquish  the  programme 
which  he  had  carved  out  for  himself.  To  the  outside 
world  it  appeared  so.  What  it  saw  was  a  misanthropical 
and  slightly  eccentric  man, — a  man  with  no  thought  be- 
yond the  management  of  his  property,  to  which  the 
devotion  of  his  life  was  given. 

And  the  world  wondered  at  what  it  saw;  for  it  was 
apparently  an  aimless  and  purposeless  expenditure  of 
time,  since  the  only  heir  to  those  wide  acres  was  an  out- 
lawed gambler.  But  the  world  did  not  understand  the 
solitary  man. 

There  was  not,  there  could  not  be,  anything  purpose- 
less in  the  life  of  a  man  like  Harold.  Running  through 
all  those  years  was  a  fixed  and  settled  resolution,  and  a 
predetermined  course  of  conditions  of  mind,  which  none 
knew  but  himself.  None  but  himself  knew  what  he  had 
suffered,  as  none  could  guess  how,  year  by  year,  he  did 
battle  with  his  feelings,  with  the  resolute  intention  of 
overcoming  them. 

No  trial  that  God  could  have  sent  could  have  driven 
the  iron  so  deeply  into  the  proud  man's  soul.  To  have 
staked  his  life's  affection  and  happiness  on  one  throw, 


SEA  FORTH. 


27 


and  to  have  lost,  was  in  itself  as  the  bitterness  of  death 
to  him.  But  that  in  his  one  venture  the  brother  whom 
he  despised  and  hated,  of  whose  character  he  had  a  scorn 
almost  amounting  to  horror,  that  that  man  of  all  others 
should  have  rushed  in  where  he  had  feared  to  tread,  and 
have  borne  off  the  prize  before  his  very  eyes, — this  it  was 
which  had  been  to  him  as  gall  and  wormwood,  and  had 
wellnigh,  at  one  time,  driven  him  mad.  And  yet  he  was 
determined  to  overcome  it.  Come  what  might,  do  what 
violence  he  might  to  his  feelings,  never  should  Seaforth 
descend  to  his  spendthrift  and  vagabond  brother. 

Nor  should  Seaforth,  his  idol,  suffer.  Without  a  mis- 
tress it  was  shorn  of  half  its  glories, — turned  into  a  sort 
of  magnificent  shooting-box  and  hunting-lodge  for  two 
solitary  men.  It  always  had  taken,  it  always  ought  to 
take,  its  place  as  one  of  the  greatest  houses  in  England. 
And  take  it  it  should  still. 

On  these  two  pivots  his  life  turned  j  on  these  two  points 
his  mind  was  fixed  ;  and  through  all  those  years,  appar- 
ently aimlessly  passing,  they  underlay  every  thought,  every 
act,  and  every  intention.  And,  to  pave  the  way  for  their 
accomplishment,  he  stood  aside,  as  it  were,  and  looked 
on  at  himself,  and  treated  that  self  as  if  he  were  treating 
and  providing  for  another  person. 

A  nature  like  his,  he  saw,  must  not  be  hurried.  Time, 
much  time,  must  be  given  to  make  the  past  a  dreamy 
long-ago ;  and  then,  then,  perhaps,  there  might  be  a 
chance  of  the  admission  of  a  new  future  and  a  fresh  pro- 
gramme of  life.  Others  had  lived  through  the  wreck  of 
their  lives'  hope,  and  from  the  ashes  of  the  past  risen 
into  greater  strength  than  ever.  Then  why  not  he? 
Others  had  conquered  by  the  force  of  time,  and  he  would 
do  so  too.  Triumph  over  circumstances  he  must  and 
would.  Never  should  it  be  said  that  he  had  been  a  vie- 


28  SEAFORTH. 

tim  to  fate  or  to  evil  fortune.  Time  he  stooped  to  use 
for  his  own  ends.  Fate  and  fortune  he  scoffed  at.  In 
the  power  of  time  and  habit  he  fully  believed. 

So  many  years,  then,  he  gave  himself  in  which  to  for- 
get, and  in  a  round  of  occupations  he  hoped  to  hurry  the 
moment  of  oblivion.  A  change  in  his  feelings  must  thus, 
he  thought,  be  wrought.  Year  after  year,  with  their  un- 
ceasing millwheel  of  duties,  must  at  length  obliterate  the 
one  year,  or  rather  the  few  months,  which  had  been  laden 
with  so  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  for  him  ;  and  every  day, 
bearing  him  further  and  further  away  from  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  the  era  of  his  weakness,  would  restore  to 
him  the  mastery  over  his  feelings,  which  for  those  brief 
and  happy  weeks  he  owned  to  himself  he  had  partially, 
if  not  entirely,  lost.  Then,  thus  much  accomplished,  he 
hoped  by  degree's  to  be  disposed  to  re-enter  society,  and 
by  slower  degrees  still  to  turn  his  thoughts  once  more  to 
marriage. 

Not  for  love.  Not  the  old  dream  of  a  happy  marriage 
and  a  beloved  wife.  No !  that  part  of  his  programme 
could  never  be ;  therein  he  had  been  wholly  vanquished  ; 
and  he  knew  in  himself  that  in  that  nor  time,  nor  habit, 
nor  will,  nor  self-respect — those  gods  to  whom  he  bowed 
and  in  whom  he  trusted — could  do  anything  for  him. 
Victory  the  first  for  fate  and  fortune,  but  victory  how 
complete  and  final  he  knew  too  well. 

But  he  would  have  the  outline  of  the  programme  still. 
With  but  that  one  exception,  it  should  be  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  the  same.  He  would  yet  find  some  beauti- 
ful woman  whom  he  could  esteem  and  regard,  albeit  she 
might  never  kindle  in  him  the  feelings  with  which  he  had 
once  been  inspired.  And  with  the  tie  of  mutual  in- 
terests, mutual  hopes  and  fears,  with  children  growing  up 
around  them  and  sharing  their  affection,  who  should  say 


SEA  FORTH.  29 

that  esteem  and  regard  would  not  ripen  into  affection, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  programme  be  carried  out 
still?  Still  might  he  laugh  at  fate  and  fortune,  and  defy 
adverse  circumstances  to  make  any  radical  change  in  the 
life  he  had  carved  out  for  himself. 

So  from  the  ashes  of  his  life-wreck  his  will  sprang, 
phoenix-like,  in  greater  force  than  ever.  The  thunder- 
bolt of  heaven  had  fallen  hot  and  heavy,  but  he  would 
not  recognize  God's  hand.  There  was  in  him  no  thought 
of  submission,  no  bowing  to  a  higher  will.  He  was  de- 
termined still  to  carve  out  his  own  future,  and  to  make  it 
what  he  deemed  it  ought  to  be. 

But  he  could  not  escape  like  this.  For  when  the  time 
he  had  allotted  to -himself  in  which  to  forget  had  expired, 
fate  had  scored  another  victory ;  for,  to  his  own  dismay, 
he  realized  that  his  wound  was  as  fresh  as  ever,  and  that 
he  still  shrank  from  the  idea  of  any  woman  in  his  home, 
any  face  at  the  head  of  his  table. 

Once  more  the  old  prescription,  the  old  remedy, — time. 
Another  year  must  now  be  added,  and  another,  and  an- 
other;  and  so  the  years  rolled  on. 

Yet  in  one  sense  was  he  worsted  in  the  struggle,  for,  as 
it  wore  on,  Time,  who  was  to  have  been  his  friend,  be- 
came in  a  way  his  enemy  also;  and  Habit,  who  was  to 
have  been  his  help,  turned  out  a  hindrance  too.  For  the 
one  laid  her  hand  upon  him  so  heavily  that  all  the  little 
youth  he  had  ever  had  slowly  departed  from  him ;  and 
the  other  rendered  his  mode  of  life  so  completely  second 
nature  to  him  that  every  day  he  shrank  more  from  the 
thought  of  any  alteration.  The  two,  banded  together, 
were  making  him  a  premature  old  man,  in  appearance,  in 
ways,  and  in  feelings. 

Grave  and  stern  he  had  always  been,  but  now  he  rarely 
smiled.  His  keenness  for  sport  departed ;  the  good- 
3* 


30  SEA  FORTH. 

fellowship  of  the  hunting-field  went  against  him ;  he 
lived  more  and  more  alone.  He  was  himself  startled  to 
find  how  the  habit  of  unsociability  was  growing  on  him  ; 
to  realize  how  it  was  his  instinct  to  turn  his  horse's  head 
into  a  by-lane  when  he  saw  in  the  distance  any  one  he 
was  likely  to  know.  By  and  by,  he  told  himself,  he 
would  have  grown  so  old,  so  morose,  so  unlike  other 
people,  that  even  with  Seaforth  at  his  back  he  would 
offer  but  little  attraction  to  any  young  girl.  And  he 
actually  began  sometimes  almost  to  wish  to  give  the 
struggle  up, — to  own  himself  defeated,  to  leave  Seaforth 
to  take  care  of  itself  in  the  present  and  in  the  future,  and 
to  live  forever  in  the  memory  of  the  one  love  of  his  life. 

But  these  were  his  moments  of  weakness,  when  the  cry 
of  his  soul  was  "Vanquished,  vanquished!"  Quickly 
following  upon  them  would  come  the  fierce  reaction,  and 
Will  be  predominant  again.  "She  shall  not  spoil  my 
life  for  me  !  Overcome  these  feelings  I  must  and  will. 
Vanquished  once,  victor  I  will  yet  be.  The  triumph  shall 
be  mine  still !" 

Little  did  the  world  as  it  saw,  and  grew  used  to  see, 
the  solitary  man,  with  his  set  stern  face,  going  his  daily 
rounds,  his  long,  monotonous  rides,  guess  of  the  wild 
battle  that  was  raging  within  him,  above  the  din  of  which 
rose  ever  the  resolution  of  which  no  man  dreamed. 

We  are  dealing  with  a  character  over  whose  life  no  soft- 
ening mother's  love  or  sister's  influence  had  ever  rested, 
no  hallowing  religious  power  had  ever  shone.  Of  a 
strength  outside  himself  he  knew  nothing,  nor  of  the 
power  of  a  Voice  that  could  still  the  raging  of  the  storm 
within  him.  Napoleon's  "/<?  me  suffis"  was  ever  the 
motto  of  his  life. 

And  what  was  the  end  of  it  ? 

That  after  all  those  years  he  was  in  just  the  same  posi- 


SEA  FORTH.  31 

tion  as  at  first ;  still  struggling  with  his  own  strong  feel- 
ings, still  determined  to  overcome  them,  and  still  unable 
to  forget  Hester  Stanhope,  or  to  banish  her  beautiful  face 
from  his  mind. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  OLD  EARL'S  DYING  REQUEST. 

THE  next  event  in  the  family  history  was  the  death  of 
the  old  earl ;  and  a  conversation  which  Harold  held  with 
his  father  a  short  time  previously  did  for  him  that  which 
all  his  own  resolutions  had  been  powerless  to  accomplish. 

The  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the  doctor  had  an- 
nounced that  the  earl's  hours  were  numbered,  the  old 
man  called  his  son  to  his  bedside,  and  somewhat  suddenly 
asked  him  the  following  question  : 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Harold,  that  when  I  am 
gone  there  is  only  one  life  between  your  brother  and  the 
property?" 

"Do  not  disquiet  yourself,"  was  Harold's  reply.  "I 
shall  certainly  marry  some  day." 

"Some  day  !"  repeated  Lord  Seaforth.  "Ah,  Harold, 
I  have  been  waiting  patiently  these  many  years  in  the 
hope  of  it ;  but  there  seems  to  me  even  less  chance  than 
there  was  at  first  of  your  making  up  your  mind  to  do  so." 

"I  shall  certainly  marry  some  day,"  repeated  Harold, 
in  exactly  the  same  tone  as  before. 

"But  supposing  you  die  in  the  mean  time?"  said  the 
old  man,  excitedly. 

Harold  raised  his  head.  He  seemed  struck  by  the 
idea. 


3  2  SEA  FORTH. 

"Supposing  you  die,"  the  old  earl  went  on,  eagerly 
following  up  his  advantage  :  "  what  happens?  The  whole 
of  this  ancient  estate,  upon  which  you  are  daily  bestow- 
ing so  much  care  and  attention,  foils  at  once  into  the 
hands  of  an  unprincipled  spendthrift,  who  would  put  it 
up  to  auction  to-morrow." 

A  sound  that  was  half  an  execration,  half  a  cry  of 
pain,  escaped  from  Harold's  lips.  He  rose  from  his  seat 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"There  are  two  ways  of  avoiding  this  terrible  misfor- 
tune," Lord  Seaforth  went  on.  "One  would  be,  of 
course,  your  having  a  son  of  your  own  ;  but,  failing  that, 
there  is  a  plan  in  my  head  which  I  have  for  some  time 
past  been  revolving,  and  for  which  I  have  long  waited  an 
opportunity  of  propounding  to  you." 

Harold  came  nearer  to  the  bedside  and  listened  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  We  must  do  that  which  it  has  been  our  family's  glory 
not  to  do.  We  must  entail  the  estate." 

"  Entail  the  estate  !"  exclaimed  Harold.  "  And  upon 
whom?  Except  myself  and  my  heirs,  there  is  no  one 
but  that  vagabond  himself." 

"You  mistake,  Harold,"  said  the  old  man.  "  God- 
frex  has  a  son." 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  this.  Harold  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  slowly,  without  speaking,  and  the  old 
man  lay  back  on  his  pillow  and  watched  him. 

"I  am  very  feeble,  Harold,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Bear 
with  me  while  I  put  the  case  before  you,  and  then  tell  me 
your  objections,  if  you  will." 

Harold  instantly  resumed  his  seat  and  gave  all  his 
attention. 

He  went  on  to  explain  that  he  intended  to  cut  Godfrey 
off  with  a  shilling,  thereby  leaving  him  entirely  in  his 


SEA  FORTH.  33 

brother's  power,  to  whom  he  should  look  for  continuing 
the  stipulated  allowance,  on  the  same  conditions  as  here- 
tofore ;  that  the  estate  should  now  be  strictly  entailed  on 
Harold  and  his  heirs;  and,  failing  them,  on  Godfrey's 
son,  Godfrey  himself  being  omitted  altogether. 

By  these  means  the  worthless  younger  son  should  never 
have  the  chance  of  making  ducks-and -drakes  of  the  prop- 
erty. 

He  concluded  by  an  earnest  entreaty  to  Harold  to 
marry  at  once,  and  to  let  him  die  with  the  feeling  that 
he  was  pledged  to  do  so. 

And,  standing  there,  by  his  father's  dying  bed,  Harold 
felt  it  was  not  worth  while  to  disturb  the  old  man's  mind 
by  any  objections.  So  certain  was  he  of  his  own  resolu- 
tion that  he  felt  the  matter  to  be  quite  unimportant.  The 
only  argument  in  its  favor  that  struck  him  was  that  of  the 
possibility  of  his  own  death  before  he  had  carried  out  his 
intentions.  So  he  first  pledged  himself  that  within  a  year 
there  should  be  a  mistress  reigning  in  the  halls  of  Sea- 
forth,  and  then  gave  his  consent  for  the  summoning  of 
the  lawyers,  with  a  view  to  the  entail  being  made. 

But  he  took  no  part  in  the  lawyers'  arrangements.  He 
looked  upon  the  whole  transaction  as  simply  the  humor- 
ing of  a  dying  man's  fancy ;  and  his  only  feeling  with 
regard  to  it  was  thankfulness  to  see  the  old  man's  mind  at 
rest  before  he  passed  away. 


34  SEA  FORTH. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

HAROLD   FULFILS   HIS   PROMISE   TO   HIS    FATHER. 

WHEN  the  year  of  mourning  for  his  father  had  nearly 
come  to  an  end,  Harold,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years, 
left  Seaforth  and  went  up  to  London,  nominally  to  take 
his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  but  in  reality  to  re-enter 
society  and  seek  for  himself  a  wife.  But,  once  in  society, 
he  realized  what  he  had  before  suspected, — that  it  was 
too  late.  He  was  too  old  and  too  unsociable  for  society, 
too  confirmed  in  his  old-fashioned  ways. 

He  could  not  exert  himself  sufficiently  to  make  himself 
agreeable,  and  he  felt  that  the  girls  he  danced  with  looked 
upon  their  solemn,  bald-headed  partner  as  quite  an  elderly 
man.  He  had  literally  no  conversation,  no  small-talk  of 
any  kind,  and  even  his  manners  he  felt  to  be  somehow 
different  from  those  of  the  young  men  to  whose  attentions 
these  young  girls  were  accustomed. 

They  were  very  kind,  but  their  manner  was  such  as 
they  would  use  to  an  uncle,  or  a  father  even.  There  was 
a  respectful  tone  in  their  talk,  and  he  knew  that  both  he 
and  his  conversation  were  a  strain  to  them,  and  that  they 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  quadrille  was  over. 
How  he  hated  and  loathed  it  all !  What  a  fish  out  of 
water  he  felt  in  the  gay  scenes  in  which  he  found  himself! 

Dinner-parties  suited  him  a  little  better,  if  by  chance 
he  got  any  one  next  him  who  did  all  the  talking  for  him ; 
but  he  could  not  start  a  conversation.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  He  had  no  idea  how  to  begin  or  what  to 
talk  about,  and  he  would  sometimes  gaze  hopelessly  first 
at  the  lady  on  his  right,  and  then  at  the  lady  on  his  left, 


SEA  FORTH. 


35 


wondering  what  kind  of  subject  would  be  likely  to  please 
or  interest  them.  He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  back  to  Seaforth,  when  he  came  across  Lady  Helen 
Fraser,  a  young  widow  of  good  family  and  no  small  share 
of  personal  beauty.  She  was  clever,  agreeable,  and  at- 
tractive. Her  conversation  was  such  that  he  could  join 
in  with  it  with  ease,  and  he  altogether  got  on  better  with 
her  than  with  any  one  he  had  yet  met. 

She  was  just  the  sort  of  person,  he  told  himself,  to 
adorn  a  great  position,  and  to  enjoy  and  appreciate  it. 
Thus  far  he  had  made  up  his  mind  the  first  evening  he 
met  her,  and  as  time  went  on  he  discovered  other  quali- 
ties, which  all  tended  to  increase  his  approbation. 

She  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  a  great  deal  of 
savoir-faire.  She  would  know  how  to  value  the  glories 
of  Seaforth,  would  do  the  honors  well,  and  entertain  the 
county  in  a  way  which  would  redound  to  his  credit. 
Though  still  quite  young,  she  was  old  enough  and  experi- 
enced enough  to  look  after  herself,  and  not  to  give  him 
any  trouble.  And  this  was  a  great  point.  He  did  not 
wish  to  have  to  do  husband  and  father  in  one,  nor  to 
have  his  wife  depending  on  his  companionship.  He 
wished  to  be  allowed  to  go  his  own  way  still. 

Of  her  character,  as  far  as  he  could  judge  of  it  on  so 
short  an  acquaintance,  he  approved.  She  was  sensible, 
energetic,  and  apparently  straightforward.  That  she  was 
worldly  and  ambitious  he  either  did  not  see,  or,  seeing, 
did  not  object  to.  It  was  altogether  the  very  thing.  His 
mind  was  soon  made  up.  What  should  he  wait  for  ? 

Lady  Helen  was  not  slow  to  perceive  his  intention,  and 
met  his  advances  more  than  half-way. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  he  made  her  a  formal  pro- 
posal, which  was  instantly  accepted.  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  did  he  discover  that  she  had  two  little  boys  by  her 


36  SEA  FORTH. 

first  marriage.  Whether  or  not  the  fact  had  been  pur- 
posely kept  from  him  he  could  not  tell,  and  it  was  too 
late  to  inquire  or  to  draw  back.  His  word  was  given,  his 
proposal  made.  He  probably  would  never  have  asked 
Lady  Helen  to  be  his  wife  had  he  known  the  circum- 
stance ;  but,  having  committed  himself,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

He  resigned  himself  to  the  infliction,  and  did  not  say 
a  word.  But  deep  down  in  his  heart,  that  heart  which 
never  forgot  and  never  forgave,  was  planted  a  feeling  of 
distrust  towards  his  future  wife,  which  in  all  the  years  to 
come  she  will  never  be  able  to  remove. 

It  was  a  fatal  mistake  on  Lady  Helen's  part ;  an  irre- 
parable false  start  with  a  man  like  Lord  Seaforth,  who 
loved  truth  and  uprightness  above  all  things.  It  gave 
him  a  hold  over  her  from  the  very  beginning,  and  it  laid 
the  foundation  of  a  lifelong  distrust. 

It  had  been  to  her  a  sore  temptation,  and  she  had 
yielded  to  it.  Left  a  widow  at  an  early  age,  with  two 
boys  and  a  scanty  dowry,  she  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it, 
and  every  day  that  her  boys  grew  older  it  became  harder. 
Contact  with  the  world  single-handed,  experience  of 
poverty,  combined  with  the  sense  that  her  boys'  future 
depended  entirely  upon  her,  had  made  her  worldly,  prac- 
tical, and  mercenary.  She  was  ambitious  for  her  boys, 
and  for  their  sakes  she  had  toiled  and  slaved  to  make 
herself  a  position  in  society,  and  to  what  is  called  "get 
on  in  the  world." 

Taking  all  these  circumstances  into  account,  we  may 
imagine  what  it  was  to  Lady  Helen  to  see  such  a  brilliant 
prospect  opening  before  her  as  a  marriage  with  Lord 
Seaforth.  It  seemed  the  answer  to  all  her  anxious  in- 
quiries as  to  the  future,  the  end  of  all  her  difficulties,  the 
beginning  of  a  new  life  for  her  and  for  her  boys. 


SEA  FORTH. 


37 


The  three  weeks'  courtship  was  a  time  of  intense  ex- 
citement to  her,  and  to  the  last  she  never  felt  quite  certain 
whether  the  prize  might  not  slip  from  her  grasp  at  the 
eleventh  hour.  How  she  stilled  her  conscience  with  re- 
gard to  the  non-mention  of  her  boys  it  is  not  for  us  to 
inquire.  That  the  end  justifies  the  means  is  the  creed  of 
some  consciences,  and  perhaps  Lady  Helen's  was  not  so 
sensitive  as  yours  or  mine.  As  we  sow  so  we  must  reap, 
and  she  was  laying  up  retribution  for  herself  in  the  days 
which  were  to  come.  But  the  end  of  the  reaping  is  not 
seen  at  first,  and  to  her  mind  it  was  a  glorious  harvest 
that  she  gathered  in  when  Lord  Seaforth  laid  himself  and 
his  worldly  goods  at  her  feet. 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed,  the  settlements  were  drawn 
up,  and  preparations  on  a  large  scale  commenced  at  Sea- 
forth for  the  reception  of  the  bride. 

Outwardly,  as  we  said  before,  all  went  well ;  and  Lord 
Seaforth  was  apparently  well  satisfied  with  everything. 
But  one  morning,  when  the  engagement  was  about  a  fort- 
night old,  he  called  upon  Lady  Helen  at  an  unusual  hour 
and  requested  a  private  and  serious  conversation.  He 
had,  he  said,  been  thinking  matters  over  with  regard  to 
her  sons,  and  thought  it  best  to  have  everything  cut-and- 
dried.  He  had  come  to  stipulate  that  he  personally 
should  have  nothing  to  do  with  them ;  that  the  responsi- 
bility of  their  training  and  bringing-up  should  rest  en- 
tirely with  her,  and  the  management  of  their  affairs  with 
their  guardians. 

Considering  Seaforth's  love  of  power,  it  was  a  curious 
contradiction  in  his  character  thus  to  put  it  from  him. 

Two  reasons  had  led  him  to  this  resolution.     First  of 

all,  with  the  experience  of  the  past   lying  like  a  dead 

weight  on  his  breast,   he  shrank    from  having  anything 

further  to  do  with  the  training  of  youths  ;  and  what  were 

4 


38  SEAFORTH. 

Colin  Fraser's  sons  to  him  ?  But,  more  potent  reason 
still,  he  was  determined  not  to  have  responsibilities  thrust 
upon  him  which  he  had  not  knowingly  incurred.  It  was 
his  only  way  of  in  some  degree  showing  that  he  consid- 
ered he  had  been  unfairly  dealt  with.  It  was  his  only 
way  of  declaring  against  and  defeating  the  ends  he  sus- 
pected Lady  Helen  to  have  had  in  view.  It  was,  in  fact, 
his  silent  protest  against  what  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
considered  the  deceit  which  had  been  practised  upon 
him. 

Lady  Helen  readily  agreed ;  gladly,  too ;  she  would 
not  have  liked  him  to  interfere.  She  felt  quite  capable 
of  managing  her  own  boys,  seeing  she  had  always  done 
so,  and  she  promised  Seaforth  he  should  never  have  any 
trouble  in  connection  with  them. 

"  They  will  be  going  to  school  soon,"  she  said,  "  and 
shall  never  be  in  your  way.  At  twenty-one  Colin  will 
come  into  his  little  property  in  Nairnshire,  which  is  let 
till  then  ;  and  little  Andrew " 

She  paused  a  minute.  She  knew  little  Andrew's  future 
to  be  exceedingly  vague,  and  in  her  own  mind  intended 
him  to  be  provided  for  out  of  Seaforth  livings  or  interest. 

"  Andrew,'1"  she  promptly  resumed,  "is  a  clever  boy, 
and  will  push  his  way.  Neither  of  my  boys  shall  ever 
be  any  trouble  to  you,  dear  Lord  Seaforth,  I  assure  you. 
Why  are  you  so  concerned  about  them?  Boys  always 
turn  out  well  in  the  end." 

Irritated,  perhaps,  by  the  confidence  born  of  inexperi- 
ence betrayed  in  these  words,  he  then,  for  the  first  time, 
spoke  to  her  of  his  brother,  and  gave  a  short  sketch  of 
his  career  and  banishment.  Lady  Helen  listened  with 
deep  interest.  She  would  fain  have  heard  more,  and  put 
a  question  when  Lord  Seaforth  had  ceased  speaking,  in 
the  hope  of  eliciting  further  details. 


SEA  FORTH. 


39 


"Is  he  your  only  brother?"  she  inquired.  "And  is 
he  unmarried  ?" 

But  his  answer  effectually  put  an  end  to  any  further 
inquiries. 

"My  only  one,"  he  answered,  very  shortly,  and  he 
began  at  once  to  take  up  his  hat,  with  a  view  to  depart- 
ure. "This  is  a  most  painful  subject,"  he  added,  as  he 
rose  from  his  seat,  "  and  I  beg  it  may  never  be  mentioned 
between  us  again.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should  allude 
to  it  before  you  entered  the  family,  but  it  is  for  the  first 
and  last  time." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  leave. 

"  At  any  rate,"  thought  Lady  Helen  to  herself,  as  soon 
as  she  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  sudden  set-down 
and  as  sudden  departure,  "at  any  rate  he  has  no  poor 
relations  to  provide  for,  and  so  there  will  be  all  the  more 
chance  for  Colin  and  Andrew." 

A  few  weeks  after  this  conversation  the  marriage  took 
place,  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  went  straight  to 
Seaforth. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LIFE   AT   SEAFORTH   UNDER  THE   NEW   REGIME. 

FOR  a  little  while  the  place  was  alive  with  rejoicings, 
and  the  house  full  of  society. 

Lady  Seaforth  proved  all  and  more  than  her  husband 
had  expected  as  a  perfect  hostess.  He  gave  her  carte 
blanche  to  invite  whom  she  chose  to  the  house,  to  spend 
as  much  money  as  she  liked  on  entertaining,  and  she 
took  full  advantage  of  his  permission  and  liberality,  and 


40  SEA  FORTH. 

did  it  all  thoroughly  well.  Harold  took  it  all  as  a  matter 
of  course.  It  ought  to  be,  and  so  it  was.  Seaforth  was 
keeping  up  its  ancient  character  as  the  great  house  of  the 
neighborhood:  the  "princely  hospitality"  of  which  he 
had  always  dreamt  was  being  dispensed  freely,  and  he 
was  satisfied. 

But  he  soon  tired  of  it  personally,  and  retired  a  great 
deal  to  his  own  rooms,  leaving  it  all  to  his  wife.  He 
resumed  imperceptibly  his  solitary  life,  and  she  relieved 
him  of  all  his  social  duties.  And  Lady  Seaforth  was  at 
first  delighted  with  her  position  and  with  her  husband. 
He  was  so  liberal,  so  easy  to  live  with ;  he  left  her  so 
entirely  free,  he  interfered  so  little  with  her  plans  and 
wishes,  he  gave  her  such  complete  power  to  ask  whom 
she  liked  to  the  house,  and  to  do  with  her  guests  as  she 
pleased  when  they  were  there,  that  she  had  not  one  wish 
unfulfilled  or  one  whim  ungratified.  Her  boys  had  ponies 
to  ride,  little  gardens  to  work  in,  and  the  stablemen  and 
gardeners  were  as  ready  and  eager  to  attend  to  their 
behests  as  if  they  were  the  masters  of  the  place.  She  had 
only  to  ask  Lord  Seaforth  leave  for  them  to  have  this  or 
that,  and  it  was  accorded  immediately.  Every  one  about 
the  place  was  glad  to  have  children  to  attend  upon  once 
more,  and  there  were  so  many  old  possessions  of  Harold's 
and  Godfrey's  which  it  was  an  interest  to  utilize  for  Lady 
Seaforth's  little  boys.  The  avaries  and  rabbit-hutches 
were  done  up,  the  little  ponds  restocked  with  gold-  and 
silver-fish.  The  old  coachman  volunteered  to  "  teach 
Master  Fraser  to  leap  against  the  hunting  season  came 
round;"  the  keeper  offered  to  initiate  him  into  the 
mysteries  of  rabbit-shooting  and  ratting.  He  also  gladly 
brought  out  long-unused  fishing-rods,  and  declared  him- 
self ready  to  take  the  young  gentlemen  out  fishing  and 
hunting  whenever  they  liked  to  go. 


SEAFORTH.  4! 

Everything  at  Seaforth  had  been  dormant  so  long  that 
all  hailed  with  joy  the  advent  of  a  new  state  of  things, 
and  the  cheeriness  and  movement  which  young  lives 
bring. 

And  can  we  wonder  that  the  poverty-stricken,  struggling 
mother  of  penniless  boys  was  carried  away  by  all  this, 
and,  dazzled  by  the  new  state  of  things  in  which  she 
found  herself,  failed  at  first  to  see  a  great  deal  that  she 
saw  only  too  clearly  afterwards  ? 

She  must  certainly  have  been  a  little  blinded,  for  she 
was  a  clever  woman,  and  not  likely  to  be  slow  to  see. 
But  still  it  was  a  long  while  before  she  realized  that  Lord 
Seaforth  held  himself  entirely  aloof  from  her  boys,  and 
never  took  the  smallest  interest  in  them.  Indeed,  he 
never  saw  them.  She  had  herself  been  careful  that  they 
should  never  be  in  his  way,  and  had  arranged  their  school- 
rooms and  bedrooms  as  far  from  his  rooms  as  possible. 
But  she  had  not  expected  that  he  would  ignore  them  like 
this  and  never  take  any  notice  of  them  at  all. 

She  was  slow  in  allowing  to  herself  that  it  was  by  the 
gardeners,  keepers,  and  stablemen  themselves,  and  not  by 
Lord  Seaforth's  orders,  that  so  much  was  done  for  them. 
He  assented,  certainly,  to  everything  she  asked ;  but  when 
she  came  to  think  it  over  it  was  more  as  a  politeness  to 
her:  "Just  as  you  please;  pray  give  what  orders  you 
like;  you  have  only  to  speak  to  the  keeper,"  etc.  He 
entirely  disclaimed  any  personal  interest  in  the  boys  or 
their  pursuits. 

But  it  was  not  only  as  regarded  her  boys  that,  as  time 
went  on,  she  began  to  ask  herself  questions  and  to  find 
the  answers  unsatisfactory. 

It  was  not  till  the  novelty  of  her  new  position  had  worn 
off,  and  she  was  beginning  to  tire  a  little  of  the  life  of 
perpetual  society,  that  she  began  to  perceive  that  her  re- 
4* 


42  SEAFORTH. 

lations  with  her  husband  were  not  quite  what  she  had  ex- 
pected. Gradually  she  began  to  realize  how  entirely  he 
kept  her  at  a  distance,  and  how  little  their  daily  lives  ran 
together ;  how  little  impression  her  presence  or  opinion 
ever  made  upon  him,  and  how  little  power  or  influence 
she  was  acquiring  over  him. 

She  was  a  long  while  finding  it  out,  and  was  at  first 
more  astonished  than  mortified.  She  had  had  complete 
power  over  her  first  husband,  and  she  had  never  doubted 
that  she  should  speedily  acquire  it  over  her  second. 

No  sooner  had  she  thoroughly  convinced  herself  that 
she  had  not  this  power  than  she  set  to  work  to  try  and 
gain  it.  But  she  made  no  way  at  all.  Some  things,  as 
we  have  said,  Lord  Seaforth  made  over  to  her  entirely, 
and  of  these  he  never  asked  an  account ;  but  in  matters 
of  mutual  interest  he  was  supreme,  and  his  own  private 
affairs  he  never  mentioned.  There  was  no  confidence  be- 
tween them,  no  interchange  of  thought  or  opinion.  He 
never  consulted  her  or  talked  things  over  with  her.  He 
simply  told  her  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  about  a 
thing,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  There  was  no  wish 
on  his  part  to  hear  her  view  of  the  subject.  Her  objec- 
tions, if  she  made  any,  he  listened  to  with  a  formal  polite- 
ness, and  then  quietly  reiterated  his  first  words,  as  if  she 
had  not  spoken  at  all. 

It  was  very  galling  to  a  woman  of  her  disposition,  and 
she  began  to  resent  the  way  in  which  he  treated  her  very 
much.  For  she  was  growing  much  interested  in  him,  and 
interest  combined  with  respect  and  a  kind  of  mysterious 
awe  with  which  she  regarded  him  were  leading  her  on  to 
a  deeper  feeling. 

It  was  impossible  to  live  with  Lord  Seaforth  without 
learning  to  respect  him,  and  to  admire  his  integrity,  his 
high-mindedness,  and  all  his  really  grand  qualities.  And 


SEA  FORTH. 


43 


she  was  deeply  mortified  to  feel  that  she  got  to  know  him 
no  better,  and  that,  respectful  and  courteous  as  he  always 
was  to  her,  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  affection,  of  inti- 
macy even,  in  his  manner.  The  silent,  reserved  man  was 
a  mystery  to  her,  and  a  mystery  he  remained. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  she  had  an  intuitive  convic- 
tion that  he  had  strong  feelings  and  deep  powers  of  affec- 
tion, and  she  could  not  bear  to  think  that  she  had  not 
the  power  of  drawing  them  out.  She  began  to  long  for  a 
quiet  domestic  life  with  him,-r-a  life  in  which  she  might 
grow  to  know  and  understand  him,  and  get  at  what  lay 
beneath  that  cold  and  silent  exterior.  But  it  was  not  to 
be.  Supreme,  as  usual,  he  had  decreed  otherwise.  The 
wheels  of  society  were  to  be  kept  turning.  That  was  not 
the  kind  of  life  he  wished  to  lead  ;  and  she  found  that  if 
there  were  not  guests  present  he  retired  to  his  own  rooms 
directly  after  dinner,  and  she  was  left  to  spend  the  even- 
ing by  herself.  How  she  wondered  what  he  did  in  those 
rooms  all  the  evening  long  alone  ! 

One  night,  moved  by  irresistible  curiosity,  she  followed 
him  to  his  room,  and  to  her  surprise  found  him  unoccu- 
pied, sitting  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  his  whole 
attitude  expressing  the  deepest  dejection. 

But  at  the  sound  of  her  step  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
a  look  of  great  displeasure  came  over  his  face.  "  I  have 
to  beg,"  he  said,  formally,  "  that  my  privacy  may  not  be 
invaded." 

After  this  rebuff  she  naturally  never  repeated  the  ex- 
periment. 

But  these  were  matters  of  inward  feeling,  and  Lady 
Seaforth  knew  how  to  conceal  her  feelings.  Outwardly, 
therefore,  all  went  well,  and  the  neighborhood,  admitted 
once  more  into  the  long-silent  halls  of  Seaforth,  saw 
nothing  in  the  demeanor  of  husband  or  wife  to  take  hold 


44  SEA  FORTH. 

of  or  comment  upon.  She  grew  in  a  measure  accustomed 
to  this  state  of  things  as  time  went  on.  Besides,  she  had 
a  great  deal  in  her  life  to  make  her  happy,  and  also  she 
did  not  despair  of  matters  improving.  His  home,  she 
told  herself,  would  not  be  a  perfect  home  till  there  were 
children  of  his  own  in  it.  She  could  not  expect  ^rboys 
to  be  anything  to  him.  But  boys  of  his  own  round  him 
would  develop  all  the  affection  that  she  felt  sure  was  hid- 
den within  him,  and  very  likely  change  him  entirely. 
She  made  every  excuse  for  him.  It  was  difficult  for  him 
to  shake  off  the  habits  of  so  many  years,  and  his  long, 
solitary,  bachelor  life  had  made  him  self-contained  and  un- 
sociable. And,  his  affections  once  brought  out,  she  would 
share  them  too.  As  the  mother  of  his  children  she  must 
be  consulted  and  advised  with ;  and  mutual  love  and  in- 
terest in  a  son  and  heir  would  draw  them  more  closely 
together.  She  herself  often  found  her  thoughts  travelling 
proudly  on  to  that  son  and  heir  in  whom  her  pride  and 
her  ambition  would  both  be  fully  satisfied. 

But,  alas  !  that  son  and  heir  never  came. 

Years  went  by,  and  the  Erasers  were  still  the  only  chil- 
dren about  the  place.  And  when  at  last  a  child  appeared, 
it  was  only  a  little  girl,  who  was,  perhaps,  a  more  bitter 
disappointment  to  her  father  and  mother  than  no  child 
at  all. 

And  that  was  all !  She  was  the  first  and  she  was  the 
last.  So  no  boys  played  on  the  green  lawns  of  Seaforth 
save  the  two  who  could  never  inherit  its  broad  acres  or 
bear  its  ancient  name. 

Lord  Seaforth,  as  was  his  wont,  kept  his  feelings  to 
himself,  and  thereby  gained  the  character  of  bearing  the 
disappointment  better  than  his  wife,  who  could  not  over- 
come her  grief,  and  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her  morti- 
fication. But  none  save  the  solitary  man  himself  knew 


SEA  FORTH.  4S 

what  it  was  to  him.  None  could  guess  what  a  hard  and 
bitter  and  cruel  trial  this  final  failure  in  his  programme  was. 

He  did  not  care  for  children  as  children,  only  as  heirs, 
and  he  took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  his  little  daughter. 
She  was  to  him  what  Florence  Dombey  was  to  Dombey 
and  Son, — "a  bad  boy:  nothing  more."  And  the  dis- 
appointment hardened  and  embittered  him.  He  grew 
more  silent,  more  morose,  more  unapproachable. 

The  disappointment  hardened  Lady  Seaforth  too.  She 
openly  declared  her  indifference  to  little  Joan,  and  point- 
edly overlooked  her.  I  think  she  thought  to  curry  favor 
with  her  husband  by  doing  so.  For  very  early  in  the 
child's  life  she  had  perceived  there  was  something  more 
than  indifference  in  the  way  he  regarded  her.  There  was 
some  feeling  behind  which  she  could  not  fathom.  But 
we,  who  know  him  better,  will  understand  it  at  once  when 
we  hear  that  though  little  Joan  was  a  pretty  child  there 
was  in  her  whole  appearance,  in  all  save  her  dark  eyes,  a 
most  striking  resemblance  to  her  disgraced  and  disin- 
herited uncle.  It  was  a  most  natural  likeness,  since  God- 
frey had  inherited  his  mother's  features,  fair  hair,  and 
coloring,  and  had  never  been  the  least  like  a  Seaforth  ; 
but  in  Lord  Seaforth's  eyes  it  was  a  terrible  aggravation 
of  all  poor  little  Joan's  offences. 

As  she  grew  the  likeness  grew,  till  at  last  he  could 
hardly  bear  the  sight  of  her. 

Lady  Seaforth,  of  course,  could  not  guess  all  this ;  but, 
taking  her  cue  from  him,  she  studiously  kept  the  child 
out  of  his  way,  and,  excusing  herself  on  the  plea  that  she 
knew  nothing  about  girls,  left  the  child  very  much  to  the 
servants. 

Little  Joan  had  her  luxurious  nurseries,  and  in  due  time 
her  luxurious  school-room ;  and  with  her  nurse  and  gov- 
erness her  little  life  was  chiefly  spent,  for  she  saw  very 


46  SEAFORTH. 

little  of  either  of  her  parents.  Lady  Seaforth  devoted 
herself  more  than  ever  to  her  boys,  and  in  their  affection 
and  in  the  interest  of  their  opening  lives  she  found  some 
consolation  for  all  her  troubles  and  disappointments. 
Lord  Seaforth  had  no  such  distraction  from  his  brood- 
ing thoughts,  no  such  refuge  from  his  own  society. 
Alone  he  brooded  over  his  life  and  its  failures,  and  alone 
he  did  battle  with  the  bitter  thought  that  now,  after  all, 
Godfrey  and  Hester's  son  was  the  indisputable  heir  to 
Seaforth. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A   SUDDEN   DETERMINATION. 

THE  reader  will  now  understand  why  the  little  ghost 
who  haunted  Seaforth  was  so  desolate  and  uncared-for. 

It  was  a  curious  household.  Three  distinct  lives  were 
hived  under  one  roof.  There  was  that  of  the  mother  and 
sons  in  one  part,  that  of  the  neglected  child  in  another, 
and  that  of  the  solitary,  brooding  man  in  a  third.  Brood- 
ing, brooding  more  than  ever, — brooding,  as  the  years 
went  on,  on  a  new  subject,  in  which  all  the  broodings  of 
his  whole  life  met  and  were  intensified. 

That  second  Godfrey,  that  uneducated  son  of  his 
"ne'er-do-weel"  brother, — to  him  his  thoughts  were 
always  turning.  Gnawing  ever  at  his  heart  was  the  feel- 
ing that  he  ought  to  do  something  for  the  boy, — some- 
thing to  save  him  from  the  life  he  must  be  leading. 
Conscience  perpetually  told  him  that  he  ought  to  have 
him  over  to  England,  and  bring  him  up  as  an  English 
gentleman  should  be  brought  up,  so  that  he  might  prop- 


SEA  FORTH.  47 

erly  fill  the  position  he  must  one  day  hold.  Growing  up 
as  he  probably  was,  among  gamblers  and  the  scum  of 
the  earth,  he  must  be  imbibing  every  day  all  that  was 
most  pernicious, — living  a  life  which  must  inevitably  bring 
him  to  tread  in  his  father's  footsteps.  Yes,  he  ought,  no 
doubt,  to  adopt  him  and  to  bring  him  up  as  his  own. 

But  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  open  the  long- 
closed  communication  with  his  brother,  and  to  stoop,  as 
it  were,  to  ask  a  favor  of  him ;  and  so,  as  in  the  case  of 
his  marriage,  he  let  the  time  pass  on,  and  could  not  bring 
himself  to  stir  in  the  matter. 

Bitter,  too,  as  was  the  thought  that  Seaforth  should,  at 
his  death,  pass  into  the  hands  of  such  a  one  as  Godfrey's 
uneducated  son  would  be,  more  bitter  still  was  the  thought 
of  the  presence  of  that  son  at  Seaforth, — that  son  who 
was  Hester's  as  well  as  Godfrey's, — the  sight  of  whom 
would  bring  back  and  parade  before,  him  all  the  joys  and 
sorrows,  the  hatreds  and  mortifications,  of  former  years ; 
who  united  in  his  own  person  the  sum  and  substance  of 
every  feeling  he  had  ever  known,  be  it  joyful  or  be  it 
bitter. 

How  could  he  bear  the  sight  of  the  son  of  the  man  he 
hated,  the  woman  he  had  loved? 

But  one  day  his  breedings  ended  in  a  sudden  and 
abrupt  determination,  and  the  letter  was  written  and  sent. 
Not  with  his  own  hand.  No,  it  was  a  purely  business- 
like transaction,  written  by  the  family  lawyer,  and  couched 
in  formal,  business-like  terms. 

The  offer,  like  all  Lord  Seaforth's  money  transactions, 
was  as  handsome  and  liberal  as  possible ;  the  conditions, 
like  all  his  conditions  with  his  brother,  were  hard  and 
stern  to  the  last  degree. 

He  charged  himself  entirely  with  the  boy's  education 
and  all  future  expenses,  profession,  and  settlement  in  life, 


48  SEA  FORTH. 

treating  him  exactly  as  his  own  son  ;  but  Godfrey  was  to 
renounce  his  parental  authority  altogether,  and  to  abstain, 
both  in  the  present  and  in  the  future,  from  any  sort  of 
interference. 

For  the  answer  to  this  letter  he  waited  with  a  feverish 
impatience,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  most  wished  or 
most  dreaded  a  compliance  with  his  tender. 

And  while  he  sits  there  waiting  and  brooding,  painting 
dark  pictures  of  his  heir's  surroundings,  let  us  follow  the 
letter  to  the  sunny  South  and  enter  with  it  the  gambler's 
home. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  GAMBLER'S  HOME. 

"  M' AIMES-TU — un  peu — beaucoup  —  passionnement — 
point  du  tout?" 

"  I  think  the  daisies  must  have  made  a  mistake,"  said 
a  plaintive  little  voice,  "  for  I  know  I  do  love  Godfrey  so 
very  much;  and  three  times  they  have  told  me  that  I 
don't." 

"Try  again,  Venice,"  said  a  laughing  voice:  "three 
is  an  unlucky  number,  you  know." 

"  But  three  times  three  are  nine,  and  nine  is  the  luckiest 
number  of  all,  papa  says,"  said  the  first  speaker. 

"  Well,  try  again,"  reiterated  the  laughing  voice. 
"Faites  votre  jeu,  messieurs;  faites  votre  jeu." 

"  Hush,  Olive  !"  said  a  third  and  very  soft  voice.  "You 
know  mamma  does  not  like  you  to  go  on  like  that." 

"Papa  taught  me,"  said  Olive. 

The  speakers  were  the  three  little  daughters  of  Godfrey 
Seaforth.  They  were  sitting  in  an  orange-grove,  playing 


SEA  FORTH. 


49 


with  the  wild  flowers  they  had  been  gathering,  which  lay 
in  their  laps  and  on  the  ground  beside  them  in  rich  pro- 
fusion. Pretty  little  girls  they  were  all  three,  and  there 
was  about  them  that  air  of  refinement  and  distinction 
which  bespoke  them  at  once  the  children  of  an  English 
gentleman.  Their  dress  was  scrupulously  neat  and  fresh, 
but  of  the  plainest  and  cheapest  material.  They  wore 
the  broad-brimmed  straw  hats  of  the  country,  and  their 
long  fair  hair  streamed  down  their  shoulders.  The 
mother's  hand  was  clearly  discernible  in  the  care  with 
which  their  pretty  complexions  and  white  little  hands 
were  shielded  from  the  destroying  effect  of  the  sun,  and 
in  the  punctilious  neatness  of  their  whole  appearance. 

Unknowing  exiles,  they  made  a  pretty  group  as  they 
sat  there  chatting  and  laughing. 

The  laughter  was  at  its  height  when  a  shadow  fell  across 
the  grove  and  footsteps  were  heard  approaching.  Flowers, 
wreaths,  and  chaplets  were  thrown  down,  and  all  three 
sprang  to  their  feet  and  ran  forward,  calling  out,  "  Papa ! 
papa!" 

Can  this  wreck  be  really  the  gay  and  handsome  God- 
frey Seaforth?  Can  this  prematurely-bent  figure,  this 
slatternly  appearance,  this  sullen,  discontented  expression, 
be  his? 

But  his  face  lights  up  for  a  moment  at  the  sight  of  his 
little  daughters.  "  How  are  all  you  ragamuffins  this 
morning,  and  what  are  you  doing?"  he  says,  as  he  bends 
down  and  kisses  each  in  turn.  He  is  a  late  riser,  and 
this  is  his  first  appearance. 

The  children  give  various  and  laughing  answers,  to 
which  he  does  not  appear  to  listen  particularly,  for  he 
asks  the  same  question  again  a  few  minutes  after;  and 
then,  lighting  his  pipe,  he  says,  absently,  "Come  for  a 
stroll." 

c  5 


5o  SEAFORTH. 

Like  little  dogs  they  follow  him,  laughing,  talking,  and 
skipping  about  him.  He  holds  very  little  converse  with 
them,  but  "moons"  along,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  absorbed  in  his  own  gloomy  thoughts. 

"Hold  up  your  head,  papa!"  says  the  laughing  voice 
of  Olive,  the  second  girl :  "  you  want  to  be  drilled,  I 
think." 

Her  merry  voice  rouses  him,  and  he  smiles.  Then  he 
stopped  short  suddenly  in  his  walk,  and,  taking  his  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  he  said,  "Big  Bear,  Middle  Bear,  and 
Little  Bear,  who  is  coming  with  me  to  Monaco  to-day?" 

This  question  came  regularly  every  day,  and  was  as  in- 
evitable as  the  morning  salutation  or  the  invitation  to 
come  for  a  stroll. 

He  called  the  children  the  Three  Bears,  and  the  name 
had  its  origin  in  this  ceremony. 

The  answers  generally  took  the  following  form  : 

"I'm  not,"  from  the  Big  Bear,  decidedly. 

"I'm  not,"  from  the  Middle  Bear,  softly. 

"I'm  not,"  from  the  Little  Bear,  in  a  whisper. 

But  this  morning,  something  possessed  Olive  to  make 
a  different  answer,  and,  to  the  surprise  of  her  sisters,  she 
said,  when  her  turn  came,  "I  am." 

Godfrey  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"What  would  you  do  with  me,  papa,  if  I  came?"  she 
said. 

The  father's  absences  from  home  and  occupations  in 
that  unknown  Monaco  were  a  source  of  the  deepest 
mystery  to  the  children. 

"Turn  you  into  gold,"  he  answered. 

He  never  took  the  trouble  to  talk  sense  to  them  or  to 
explain  things  properly. 

"  How  silly  that  is  !"  said  Olive. 

"I'm  quite  serious,"    he  said.     "You  might   be  as 


SEA  FORTH.  51 

good  to  me  as  a  lot  of  gold.  You'd  bring  me  luck, 
perhaps." 

"What  is  luck,  papa?"  asked  Olive.  "You  so  often 
talk  about  it,  and  I  never  exactly  understand  what  it 
is." 

"Don't  ask  me,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "I'm  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  tell  you  anything  about  it.  I'm  the 
most  unlucky  dog  that  ever  lived.  I  never  had  a  bit  of 
luck  in  my  life,  Oily, — except  one,"  he  added,  half  to 
himself. 

"And  what  was  that?"  inquired  Olive,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  never  you  mind,"  he  said,  more  gravely  :  "  that's 
no  business  of  little  girls." 

"Well,  you  won't  tell  me  anything  I  want  to  know," 
she  said,  rather  poutingly,  not  liking  his  tone,  with  the 
hurt  feeling  of  a  child  who  will  not  suffer  a  word  of  re- 
proof from  an  unwonted  source. 

"I  can't,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  which  was  half  hard, 
half  bitter.  "  How  can  I  tell  you  what  I  don't  know 
myself?" 

"You  are  not  half  such  a  good  answerer  of  questions 
as  Godfrey,"  she  said,  discontentedly:  "  he  always  tells 
us  what  we  want  to  know.  So  I  shall  just  ask  him  what 
luck  is." 

"You'd  better,"  he  said,  with  a  sneer,  and  with  such  a 
frown  on  his  handsome  face  that  he  looked  for  a  moment 
positively  diabolical:  "You  couldn't  ask  any  one  who 
knows  more  about  it." 

"You  are  very  cross,  papa,"  said  Olive,  half  crying. 
"  Why  do  you  frown  at  me  like  that  ?" 

He  recovered  himself  at  her  words  and  pulled  her  hair 
laughingly.  "  I  wasn't  frowning  at  you,  my  little  woman, 
only  at  my  own  thoughts.  But  come,  Oily,"  he  said, 
more  lightly,  "  here's  a  bargain  for  you.  If  you'll 


52  SEAFORTH. 

come  with  me  to  Monaco  I'll  explain  to  you  what  luck 
means." 

Olive  clapped  her  hands.  "Oh,  papa!  do  you  really 
mean  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  really  and  truly,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  what  fun  !"  she  exclaimed;  and  she  turned  back 
to  her  sisters,  whf)  had  fallen  behind  and  were  picking 
flowers.  "  Hessie  !  Venice  !  what  do  you  think  ?  Papa 
says  he'll  take  me  to  Monaco  !" 

The  two  little  girls  looked  much  astonished. 

"  We  must  go  home  and  ask  mamma  first,"  said  Hester. 

"And  change  your  frock  and  boots,"  added  Venice. 
•  Olive  looked  down  at  her  brovvn-holland  pinafore  and 
dusty  boots. 

"  So  I  must,"  she  said.  "  I  say,  Hester,  do  you  think 
mamma  will  say  'Yes'  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hester,  demurely:  "I'm  sure  she'll  say 
'No.'" 

"Then  I  shan't  go  home  and  ask  her,"  said  the  im- 
pulsive child. 

Hester  looked  too  horrified  to  speak,  and  little  Venice 
burst  out,  "  Oh,  you  naughty  Oily  !  I'm  quite  shocked 
at  you  ! ' ' 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Olive.  "  Papa  said  I  might :  so 
that's  quite  enough." 

"You  don't  generally  think  it  enough,"  said  Hester. 

But  Olive  was  now  reckless,  and  she  dashed  after  her 
father,  calling  out,  "I'm  coming,  papa:  wait  a  minute 
for  me." 

Godfrey  Seaforth  turned  round  laughing.  "I  didn't 
really  mean  it,  you  know,  Oily  :  I  was  only  joking." 

Poor  little  Olive  fairly  burst  into  tears.  She  knew  she 
was  doing  wrong ;  she  had  sacrificed  a  great  deal  for  him 
in  the  war  of  conscientious  scruples, — lowered  herself  in 


SEA  FORTH.  53 

the  eyes  of  her  sisters, — and  now  he  told  her  he  was  only 
joking  ! 

"  You  shouldn't  tell  stories  like  that,  papa,"  she  sobbed : 
"it's  very,  very  wicked." 

Godfrey  laughed  more  than  ever. 

Nothing  amused  him  more  than  "getting  a  rise"  out 
of  the  impetuous  Olive. 

Hester  and  Venetia  now  came  running  up,  and  by 
tender  words  and  caresses  sought  to  soothe  their  little 
sister. 

But  she  would  not  be  consoled.  Her  feelings,  her 
pride,  and  her  conscience  were  all  wounded;  and  the  dis- 
appointment, too,  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"  I  wish  Godfrey  was  here,"  said  Hester  half  to  herself: 
"he  always  knows  how  to  comfort  Oily." 

Godfrey  caught  her  words  and  turned  sharply  round. 
"Leave  her  to  me,  both  of  you,"  he  said,  roughly.  "/ 
can  comfort  her  as  well  as  any  one.  Look  here,  my  little 
Oily;  I  couldn't  take  you  with  me.  Mamma  would  not 
like  it,  you  know." 

"No,"  put  in  little  Venetia;  "no  more  wouldn't 
Godfrey  like  it,  neither." 

Godfrey  looked  furious,  and  muttered  something  to 
himself  in  very  strong  language. 

"Look  here,  Oily,"  he  said,  suddenly  springing  to  his 
feet :  "I  will  take  you  :  so  dry  your  tears,  and  come 
along.  Hessie,  run  home  and  tell  mamma  I  have  taken 
Oily  with  me,  and  will  bring  her  home  by  the  early  train. 
Look  sharp,  Oily !  Give  me  your  hand.  We  must  run 
to  catch  the  train.  There  !  your  best  leg  foremost,  and 
'apres  nous  le  deluge  !'  " 

So  saying,  he  started  off,  with  Olive  flying  at  his  side, 
leaving  the  other  two  children  quite  speechless  with 
astonishment. 

5* 


54 


SEAFORTH. 


Hester  looked  grave,  but  little  Venetia's  pretty  eyes 
were  sparkling  with  excitement. 

"  He  had  no  business  to  do  it,"  said  the  spirited 
Hester,  "  and  she  had  no  business  to  go." 

The  little  girls  retraced  their  steps,  very  much  sobered, 
till  they  came  to  the  orange-grove  they  had  lately  quitted ; 
and  here  Venetia's  attention  was  distracted  by  the  sight 
of  her  daisies  scattered  about  on  the  grass.  She  sat  down 
among  them,  and  was  soon  immersed  in  "  M'aimes-tu? — 
un  peu — beaucoup,"  etc. 

Meanwhile,  Hester  passed  on,  across  the  grove,  through 
the  garden,  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps  which  led  to  a  bal- 
cony, and  entered  the  house  by  the  drawing-room  window, 
exclaiming,  "  Mamma,  only  think  !  What  do  you  think? 
Papa  has  taken  Olive  to  Monaco  !" 


CHAPTER   XL 

HESTER'S  MARRIED  LIFE. 

NEARLY  twenty  years  have  passed  over  the  head  of  Hes- 
ter Stanhope  since  the  day  when  she  fled  with  Godfrey 
Seaforth ;  and  yet  she  is  not  very  much  altered.  She  was 
a  beautiful  girl  then,  and  now  she  is  a  beautiful  woman. 
Time  and  trial  have  but  deepened  the  lovely  expression 
of  her  eyes,  and  the  soul  of  a  noble  woman  looks  more 
fully  through  them. 

She  has  grown  accustomed  to  sorrow,  and  has  ceased  to 
expect  anything  from  life,  but  her  natural  hopefulness  and 
buoyancy  are  not  quite  beaten  down  yet ;  and  so,  though 
a  saddened,  she  is  not  what  many  a  wife  in  her  place  would 


SEA  FORTH. 


55 


most  infallibly  have  become — a  broken-down  woman. 
Gone,  indeed,  the  bright  hopes  of  youth  and  the  expecta- 
tion of  this  world's  gladness;  but  their  loss  has  only 
driven  her  more  closely  to  God,  and  caused  her  to  put 
all  her  hopes  in  a  happier  world. 

Let  us  glance  at  the  events  of  those  twenty  years,  and 
see  what  her  life  has  been. 

In  the  heyday  of  youth  and  hope  she  married  Godfrey 
Seaforth,  and  youth  and  hope  carried  her  through  a  great 
deal.  At  first,  too,  she  was  very  happy.  The  joy  and 
relief  of  having  escaped  from  her  troubles,  and  the  gay 
freedom  of  her  new  life,  were  enough  for  her,  combined 
with  the  love  and  gratitude  she  bore  towards  the  man  who 
had  so  unhesitatingly  sacrificed  himself  for  her. 

He  had  made  her  believe — and  he  did  all  he  could  to 
foster  the  belief — that  he  was  ill  treated  and  unjustly  used 
by  his  father  and  brother,  who,  for  some  reason  unknown 
to  him,  hated  him,  and  had  always  done  so.  He  took 
pains  to  instil  into  her  that  he  was  sinned  against,  not 
sinning, — unfortunate,  not  in  fault, — and  that  all  his 
money  troubles  arose  from  his  allowance  being  inade- 
quate to  meet  his  expenses  and  to  enable  him  to  live  like 
a  gentleman. 

What  that  allowance  was  she  never  exactly  knew,  for 
Godfrey  took  care  not  to  tell  her.  Probably  in  her  eyes 
it  would  have'  seemed  a  large  sum.  She  was  ignorant 
about  money  and  its  management,  and  did  not,  therefore, 
realize  how  recklessly  Godfrey  lived,  nor  how  extravagant 
he  was  in  every  way. 

Her  only  sorrow  was  that  she  had  brought  him  no  for- 
tune of  her  own,  and  that  his  marriage  had  but  increased 
his  expenses.  To  such  lamentations  Godfrey  had  always 
the  same  answer  to  make  :  that  her  expenses  were  a  mere 
drop  in  the  ocean  as  compared  to  his  (which  indeed  was 


56  SEAFORTH. 

true),  and  that  his  marriage  with  her,  far  from  adding  to 
his  difficulties  and  troubles,  had  given  him  courage  to 
bear  them. 

In  justice  to  Godfrey,  we  must  say  that  such  speeches 
had  more  meaning  in  them  than  was  generally  to  be 
attached  to  his  words.  For  his  marriage  was  a  source  of 
the  greatest  pride  and  satisfaction  to  him.  He  was  so 
proud  of  having  gained  a  victory  over  his  brother,  and  of 
having  scored  one  to  the  good  in  the  race  of  life  they  ran 
together.  It  was  a  never-ending  matter  of  triumph  to 
him  that  Harold,  with  all  his  worldly  advantages  at  his 
back,  should  have  been  worsted  when  they  came  to  strug- 
gle hand  to  hand,  and  that  this  beautiful  girl,  noble  and 
high-principled  as  he  knew  her  to  be,  should  have  pre- 
ferred him,  the  black  sheep,  to  his  immaculate  brother, 
thereby  proving  that  he  was  not  such  a  castaway  as  that 
brother  considered  him.  He  must  be  worth  something, 
after  all,  if  a  woman  like  Hester  could  trust  and  prefer 
him.  Besides,  he  did  really  love  his  young  wife  with  all 
the  depth  of  feeling  of  which  his  nature  was  capable.  He 
loved  her  and  was  proud  of  her.  And  indeed  she  was  a 
wife  of  whom  any  man  might  be  proud.  Her  beauty  and 
her  brightness  carried  all  before  her. 

Then,  too,  he  enjoyed  her  good  opinion,  and  would 
not  for  the  world  have  had  her  faith  in  him  shaken.  She 
was  the  first  person  who  had  ever  believed  in  him,  and 
the  sensation,  from  its  very  novelty,  was  exceedingly 
pleasant.  He  resolved,  in  so  far  as  anything  so  weak 
could  resolve,  that  she  should  never  repent  the  step  she 
had  taken,  and  that  Harold  should  never  be  able  to  glory 
in  her  wretchedness  as  the  unhappy  wife  of  a  bad  man. 
He  was  determined  to  try  and  act  up  (outwardly,  at  any 
rate)  to  her  idea  of  him,  so  that  she  should  not  know  how 
unprincipled  and  bad  he  was.  And  so,  partly  by  con- 


SEAFORTH. 


57 


cealment,  partly  by  deception,  and  partly  by  trading  on 
her  youth  and  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  he  did  for  a 
very  considerable  time  continue  to  blind  his  wife's  eyes 
to  the  real  character  of  the  man  she  had  married. 

But  this  ideal  state  of  things  could  not  last.  As  the 
shadows  deepened  and  the  inevitable  crash  drew  near, 
fresh  qualities  appeared  in  his  young  wife  to  increase  yet 
more  his  love  and  admiration.  But,  alas  !  the  very  cir- 
cumstances that  drew  them  forth,  and  raised  her  higher 
in  his  estimation,  lowered  him  in  hers.  Slowly  but  surely 
her  eyes  opened. 

He  saw,  with  surprise  and  delight,  her  courage  rise 
above  all  their  troubles ;  her  dauntless  behavior  when  at 
last  the  blow  fell,  and  they  had  to  fly  like  thieves  in  the 
middle  of  the  night ;  the  calmness  with  which  she  sub- 
mitted to  his  father's  conditions  and  saw  herself  con- 
demned to  a  life  of  enforced  exile.  She,  meanwhile,  saw 
a  great  deal  which  he  had  endeavored  to  conceal  from  her. 

As  soon  as  the  conditions  were  agreed  upon,  and  the 
first  advance  of  the  allowance  paid,  they  went  for  a  tour 
in  Italy,  and  then  settled  for  the  summer  at  Hornburg. 
By  that  time  they  had  been  married  nearly  eighteen 
months,  and  Godfrey's  character  was  no  longer  a  secret 
to  his  wife. 

I  do  not  mean  that  she  had  fully  realized  his  total  want 
of  principle ;  but  her  faith  in  him  was  thoroughly  shaken, 
and  she  knew  how  frail  was  the  bark  in  which  she  had  set 
sail  on  life's  sea.  She  had  found  that  he  was  not  to  be 
trusted,  and  that  he  did  not  speak  the  truth;  had  learnt 
that  she  must  depend  upon  herself,  and  act  always  with- 
out help  or  counsel  from  him.  Nay,  more,  that  on  some 
occasions  she  must  conceal  her  intentions  from  him,  lest 
he  should  make  her  act  in  a  way  her  conscience  could  not 
approve, 
c* 


58  SEAFORTH. 

Her  character,  happily,  was  a  strong  one ;  and,  these 
lessons  once  learnt,  she  grew  firm  and  self-reliant ;  not  in 
the  independence  that  is  born  of  pride  and  self-sufficiency, 
but  in  that  which  has  its  source  in  something  higher  and 
holier;  not  Lord  Seaforth's  "  Je  me  suffis,"  but  St.  Paul's 
"  Strong  in  the  Lord  and  in  the  power  of  his  might." 

She  needed  such  strength  sorely,  for  she  was  never  cer- 
tain from  day  .to  day  what  her  husband  was  going  to  ask 
her  to  do,  nor  whether  he  was  giving  her  the  real  reason 
for  his  actions  and  intentions;  never  sure  how  much  he 
was  telling  her  and  how  much  he  was  concealing. 

Often  and  often  she  had  complied  with  his  wishes  be- 
cause he  had  alleged  a  reason  she  considered  sufficient, 
and  then,  having  secured  her  compliance,  he  would  laugh 
and  tell  her  it  was  for  some  quite  different  reason, — one 
for  which  she  would  never  have  yielded  had  she  known 
what  it  really  was.  He  would  thus  trade  upon  the  up- 
rightness of  her  character  and  upon  her  sense  of  wifely 
duty,  causing  her  to  make  promises  from  which  he  knew 
well  she  would  not  withdraw,  while  he  reserved  to  him- 
self the  right  of  breaking  his  word.  He  himself  would 
be  faithful  to  nothing,  true  to  no  promise,  bound  by  no 
laws. 

God  knows  how  earnestly  she  tried  to  influence  her 
husband  for  good,  and  to  do  a  true  wife's  part,  by  trying 
to  lead  him  into  the  right  path ;  how  ceaselessly  she 
sought  to  bring  to  bear  upon  him  all  the  influence  which 
she  knew  she,  to  a  certain  extent,  had  over  him.  In 
vain !  He  could  admire,  but  he  could  not  imitate. 
There  are  some  natures  on  which  everything  is  thrown 
away.  Light,  shallow,  and  worthless,  it  is  but  casting 
pearls  before  swine. 

She  lavished  a  wealth  of  thought  and  care  upon  him. 
He  never  retained,  though  he  seemed  to  listen.  Some- 


SEA  FORTH.  59 

times  she  would  imagine  she  had  at  last  made  some  faint 
impression  :  the  next  day  he  would  talk  and  act  as  if  she 
had  said  nothing  the  day  before.  He  never  exercised  the 
powers  of  his  own  mind  on  what  she  said ;  till  she  was 
forced  to  own  that  it  was  all  waste  of  time  and  mind  and 
thought  and  strength. 

His  moral  sense  was  not  to  be  reached,  his  con- 
science not  to  be  touched,  nor  any  real  feeling  to  be  got 
at  even  for  a  transient  fit  of  earnestness,  except  on  very 
rare  occasions,  and  even  then  the  fit  would  pass  away  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  all  that  had  been  undertaken 
under  its  influence  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds  again. 
The  promises  of  to-day  were  lightly  broken  to-morrow, 
the  resolutions  of  the  morning  dismissed  with  a  laugh 
before  night.  And  hopelessness  would  take  possession 
of  her,  wondering  how  it  was  all  to  end.  A  shrinking 
fear  would  come  over  her  that  the  work  of  reforming  him 
must  be  left  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  that  some  terrible 
lesson  would  one  day  be  given.  Her  heart  would  be 
wrung  with  the  desire  to  save  him  ere  that  time  should 
come,  ere  God  himself  "  took  the  pruning-knife  into  his 
hand." 

Perhaps  it  was  well  that  such  sad  yearnings  should 
wake  and  live  within  her,  for  as  she  more  fully  realized 
how  terribly  the  want  of  truth,  depth,  and  principle  tells 
upon  the  smallest  detail  of  every-day  life,  a  blow  was 
dealt  to  her  affections,  and,  had  not  Pity  pinioned  it  so 
firmly,  Love  might  have  soared  away. 


60  SEA  FORTH. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE   POISONING    OF   HESTER'S   HOME-LIFE. 

WHEN  they  had  been  married  two  years,  a  son  was 
born  to  them,  and  though  Hester's  aching  heart  was 
filled  with  joy  in  his  possession,  yet,  in  so  far  as  her  hus- 
band was  concerned,  the  child's  birth  only  added  to  her 
troubles;  for  the  sight  of  the  boy  was  a  perpetual  re- 
proach to  Godfrey.  It  brought  home  to  him  how  he  had 
thrown  away  his  life  and  its  advantages,  and  so  done  his 
son  an  irreparable  injury.  Till  now  his  exiled  life  had 
been  no  grief  to  him,  the  thought  of  the  future  no 
trouble,  the  memory  of  the  past  no  pain.  But  now  he 
began  to  feel  what  he  had  done,  and,  what  was  worse,  to 
fancy  Hester  felt  it  too,  and  would  begin,  for  her  boy's 
sake,  to  deplore  the  loss  of  advantages  she  had  never 
regretted  for  her  own. 

Then  he  was  very  jealous  of  her  affection  for  the  child. 
For  two  years  he  had  had  her  entirely  to  himself,  and 
been  accustomed  to  look  upon  himself  as  the  pivot  round 
which  her  every  thought  turned,  and  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  interest  straying  from  him  to  another.  He  was 
injured  and  angry  when  he  saw  what  a  large  share  of  her 
love  and  attention  was  given  to  the  baby,  and  he  would 
try  to  persuade  himself  and  her  that  the  love  which  was 
given  to  the  boy  was  taken  from  him. 

His  son  was  a  thorn  in  Godfrey's  side  from  the  moment 
of  his  birth  ;  and  if  in  the  most  indirect  manner  he  came 
in  his  way,  or  anything  went  wrong,  he  would  put  it  all 


SEA  FORTH.  6 1 

down  to  the  baby,  and  say  they  had  never  been  so  happy 
since  he  was  born. 

Hester  was  naturally  deeply  hurt  at  all  this.  It  grieved 
her  to  find  her  feelings  unshared,  and  to  see  that 
Godfrey  had  no  fatherly  love  or  pride  in  him.  Unfor- 
tunately, little  Godfrey  was  a  regular  Seaforth,  utterly 
unlike  either  father  or  mother,  except  that  he  had  her 
smile.  Being  like  a  Seaforth,  he  naturally  bore  a  strong 
likeness  to  his  uncle ;  and  this  was  a  fresh  offence.  God- 
frey would  harp  upon  it,  declaring  the  child  was  his 
brother's  living  image,  and  asking  Hester  how  she  could 
expect  him  to  like  the  child,  such  being  the  case. 

In  vain  Hester  pointed  out  it  was  not  his  brother  in 
particular,  but  the  family  in  general  that  the  child  re- 
sembled. Godfrey  would  not  listen.  He  persisted  that 
the  boy  reminded  him  every  day  more  and  more  of  what 
he  remembered  his  brother  as  a  child,  and  he  even  went 
so  far  as  to  say  he  had  the  same  cold,  grave  way  of  look- 
ing at  him. 

No  doubt  the  personal  likeness  was  very  striking,  and 
as  little  Godfrey  grew  out  of  babyhood  into  boyhood 
he  began  to  develop  something  of  the  same  character. 
Grave,  conscientious,  and  trustworthy,  both  in  disposi- 
tion and  in  appearance  he  might  have  been  Harold's 
own  son. 

Then  why  did  not  Hester  dislike  him  too? 

Alas  !  poor  Hester  !  What  in  the  intolerance  of  youth 
she  had  despised  and  held  in  contempt,  bitter  experience 
had  taught  her  to  appreciate.  She  had  learnt  how  an 
earnest  nature  must  suffer  when  thrown  with,  or,  worse 
still,  allied  to,  a  light  and  shallow  one ;  and  she  had 
suffered  so  much  from  the  want  of  those  firmer  and  more 
enduring  qualities  in  her  husband  that  she  no  longer 
regarded  them  in  the  same  light  as  formerly.  On  the 
6 


62  SEAFORTH. 

contrary,  she  found  in  her  boy's  disposition,  whether  it 
resembled  his  uncle's  or  not,  a  deep  rest  and  refreshment. 

But  she  did  not  dare  show  her  love  before  her  hus- 
band ;  for  Godfrey's  anger  and  jealousy  were  dangerous 
things  to  rouse.  He  would  say,  if  she  ventured  gently 
to  remonstrate  with  him,  that  she  was  regretting  her 
marriage,  and  thinking  how  the  child  might  have  been 
Harold's  son,  heir  to  everything.  Or  he  would  tell  her 
plainly  that  he  could  not  stand  a  rival,  that  her  affection 
held  him  straight,  and  that  if  he  thought  her  love  for  him 
was  waning  or  passing  to  another,  be  that  other  who  he 
might,  he  would  "go  to  the  bad"  altogether,  and  give 
himself  up  to  all  the  temptations  from  which  for  her  sake 
he  refrained, — mysteriously  affirming  that  he  could  make 
a  fortune  at  play,  if  reverence  and  love  for  her  did  not 
hold  him  back.  And,  terribly  alarmed,  she  would  hardly 
dare  ask  him  what  he  meant,  but  would  only  reiterate  her 
assurance  of  her  never-dying  love  and  devotion. 

As  the  years  went  by,  Godfrey  began  to  grow  restless 
and  discontented  with  the  life  he  was  leading,  and  to  long 
to  return  to  his  native  land.  The  point  before  him  was 
his  father's  death,  when,  as  he  imagined,  his  younger 
son's  portion  would  accrue  to  him,  and  his. exile  come  to 
an  end.  And  a  new  idea  too  was  filling  his  mind.  His 
brother's  long-delayed  marriage  raised  fresh  hopes  in  his 
breast.  The  heirship  seemed  brought  very  close  to  him. 

Gaming  became  a  necessity  to  him,  that  the  excitement 
might  a  little  distract  his  thoughts  and  allay  his  im- 
patience. When  his  father  was  dying,  he  expected  every 
day  to  be  sent  for  and  forgiven,  and  he  grew  suspicious 
that  something  was  wrong  when  the  summons  never  came. 
But  little  was  he  prepared  for  the  news  that  reached  him 
after  his  father's  death.  That  he  should  be  cut  off  with 
a  shilling  was  a  most  unexpected  blow,  but  that  his  father 


SEA  FORTH.  63 

should  entail  the  estate  over  his  head  and  divide  the  prop- 
erty from  the  title  was  a  thing  he  could  not  have  believed 
possible. 

It  was  the  ruin  of  Godfrey  forever.  He  saw  himself 
condemned  to  end  his  days  in  exile,  with  no  hope  in  the 
future,  no  chance  of  retrieving  the  past ;  nothing  before 
him  but  poverty  and  expatriation  to  the  last  day  of  his 
existence.  It  was  a  bitter  punishment,  and  it  exercised 
the  very  worst  effect  upon  him.  He  grew  reckless,  and 
from  that  day  steadily  deteriorated.  Hitherto  he  had 
only  played  moderately,  though  always  more  than  his 
wife  had  any  idea  of;  but  now  he  plunged  into  play 
deeply,  to  drown  his  troubles  in  excitement. 

By  this  time,  too,  he  was  a  good  deal  in  debt,  and  the 
most  rigid  economy  had  to  set  in.  They  removed  into  a 
smaller  house,  and  discharged  nearly  all  their  servants. 

Godfrey  made  his  poverty  an  excuse  for  neglecting  his 
dress  and  personal  appearance,  and  began  to  have  an  un- 
tidy "going-down-hill"  look  about  him.  He  avoided 
his  equals,  and  sank  by  degrees  to  a  lower  class  of  com- 
panions, living  almost  entirely  with  professed  gamblers. 

Hester  felt  all  this  deeply.  She  herself  retired  alto- 
gether from  society ;  but  she  never  relaxed  her  efforts  to 
keep  herself,  her  child,  and  her  home  what  a  gentleman's 
wife,  child,  and  home  ought  to  be. 

When  the  gaming-tables  in  Europe  were  closed,  God- 
frey removed  to  the  neighborhood  of  Monaco ;  and  Hes- 
ter, only  anxious  now  to  hide  herself  and  her  troubles 
from  the  world,  persuaded  him  to  build  a  little  chalet 
among  the  hills  between  Nice  and  Monaco,  where  she 
might  lead  as  retired  a  life  as  possible. 

This  isolated  spot  became  their  home.  Here  Godfrey's 
life  settled  itself  into  that  of  the  regular  and  professed 
gambler.  He  spent  part  of  almost  every  day  at  Monte 


64  SEAFORTH. 

Carlo,  not  returning  home  till  evening,  and  sometimes 
remaining  there  for  the  night. 

Here,  in  course  of  time,  three  little  daughters  were 
added  to  the  family.  The  eldest  was  the  image  of  her 
mother,  after  whom  she  was  of  course  named,  and  she 
became  her  father's  darling  at  once.  The  other  two  also 
resembled  her,  but  inherited  Godfrey's  features  and  col- 
oring; and  he  received  them  also  into  his  affections. 

The  advent  of  these  little  girls  made  a  great  and  happy 
change  in  the  gambler's  home.  Bright,  happy  little  crea- 
tures, and  lovely  withal,  the  orange-grove  was  kept  alive 
with  their  merry  voices  from  morning  till  night.  And 
the  grave  boy's  smile  grew  less  rare,  and  the  mother's 
heart  grew  lighter,  and  the  prematurely  aged  gambler 
grew  young  again  as  he  listened  to  the  gay  prattle  and 
laughter  and  joined  in  the  gambols  of  his  pretty  little 
daughters.  The  two  youngest  were  called  Olive  and 
Venetia. 

Hester  had  tried  to  revive  family  names,  for  she  had  a 
faint  hope  that  some  day  her  children  would  be  restored 
to  their  native  land  and  their  forefathers'  home ;  and  she 
did  not  wish  them  to  be  quite  aliens  from  family  associa- 
tions. But  Godfrey  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  would 
have  no  connection  with  Seaforth.  The  home,  he  said, 
from  which  he  had  been  banished  should  never  have  a 
chance  of  opening  its  doors  to  his  daughters,  and  they 
should  grow  up  ignorant  of  any  family  associations  what- 
ever, believing  themselves  to  be,  what  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  they  were,  foreigners.  So  he  called  the  one 
Olive,  after  the  olive-trees  by  which  their  home  was  sur- 
rounded, and  the  other  Venetia,  in  memory  of  the  visit  he 
and  Hester  had  paid  to  Italy  in  their  early  married  life. 

The  little  girls  created  a  distraction  in  Godfrey's  mind, 
and  his  attention  became  more  diverted  from  Hester  and 


SEAFORTH.  65 

her  son.  She  was  therefore  more  able  to  attend  to  her 
boy,  and  began  to  devote  all  the  time  and  care  she  could 
to  his  education.  She  was,  as  the  reader  will  remember, 
well  fitted  for  the  task ;  and  thankful  she  felt  that  she  had 
shared  her  brother's  classical  and  other  studies,  so  that 
she  was  able  now  to  be  useful  to  her  son. 

Matters  between  the  father  and  son  did  not  improve  as 
time  went  on,  for  when  the  birth  of  little  Joan  put  the 
boy  in  the  position  of  direct  heir  to  Seaforth,  jealousy  of 
his  son's  prospects  became  mixed  with  Godfrey's  other 
feelings  towards  him.  He  grew  positively  to  hate  the 
very  sight  of  him,  and  took  to  persecuting  him,  picking 
holes  in  him,  trying  to  catch  him  tripping;  his  object 
chiefly  being  to  lower  him  in  his  mother's  eyes. 

Hester  had  to  contrive  to  keep  him  out  of  his  father's 
way  more  than  ever,  and  to  explain  matters  to  the  boy  as 
best  she  could ;  but  she  dreaded  the  effect  it  might  have 
upon  him,  and  feared  it  might  either  harden  and  make 
him  reckless,  or  else  confuse  his  sense  of  right  and  wrong 
and  justice.  To  see  so  young  a  creature's  life  saddened 
by  neglect  and  unkindness,  to  have  him  live  in  such  an 
atmosphere  of  jealousy  and  suspicion,  and  not  to  be  able 
to  shield  him  from  injustice,  was  almost  more  than  she 
could  bear.  But  what  could  she  do  ?  She  could  only  try 
to  give  him  the  means  of  being  happy  in  himself,  and 
hope  that  habit  might  perhaps  enable  him  to  take  his  life 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to  grow  used  to  things  without 
understanding  why  they  should  be. 

His  natural  thoughtfulness  was  deepened  by  the  studi- 
ous, contemplative  life  he  led.  In  the  long  hours  during 
which  she  was  obliged  to  send  him  out  on  the  hills  by 
himself  to  keep  him  away  from  his  father,  his  books  were 
his  sole  companions,  and  reading  became  the  great  solace 
of  his  existence. 

6* 


66  SEAFORTH. 

This  she  did  her  very  utmost  to  encourage,  knowing 
how  far  love  of  study  goes  to  make  any  one  independent 
of  outward  circumstances  and  present  surroundings. 

She  longed  to  send  him  to  school  in  England  or  in 
Germany,  away  from  the  saddening  conditions  under 
which  his  young  life  was  spent.  But  Godfrey  would  not 
hear  of  it.  He  would  do  nothing  for  the  boy,  make  no 
sacrifice,  deny  himself  no  luxury,  for  his  sake.  She  found 
herself  sometimes  even  wishing  Lord  Seaforth  would  adopt 
him  and  bring  him  up  as  his  own,  and  almost  grew  to  ex- 
pect that  some  such  offer  would  one  day  be  made.  She 
was  beginning  to  be  alarmed  about  his  education,  in  view 
of  the  position  he  would  one  day  fill.  But  this  was  an 
argument  she  did  not  dare  to  use  with  her  husband.  The 
very  faintest  allusion  to  his  son's  prospects  sent  him  into 
a  furious  rage,  followed  by  days  of  brooding  and  persecu- 
tion. 

The  contrast  between  the  way  in  which  Godfrey  treated 
his  son  and  the  terms  he  was  on  with  his  little  daughters 
was  very  marked.  To  Hester's  mind  it  brought  out  his 
unkindness  in  a  stronger  light.  To  them  he  was  charm- 
ing. He  was  fond  of  them  and  proud  of  them.  Their 
light  hearts  and  high  spirits  suited  him  exactly.  Personal 
authority  or  influence,  as  the  reader  has  seen,  he  had  none; 
and  respect  or  reverence  on  their  side  he  neither  exacted 
nor  received.  He  did  not  wish  for  respect.  He  liked  to 
be  on  equal  easy  terms  with  them,  and  to  have  them  ready 
and  willing  to  be  dancing  round  him  whenever  he  felt  in- 
clined for  their  society.  He  was  proud  of  their  quick 
answers  and  merry  retorts,  and  would  not  for  the  world 
have  had  them  checked.  Of  course  he  had  no  trouble 
in  connection  with  them.  Shirking  all  responsibilities  as 
usual,  he  merely  treated  them  like  toys,  and  left  every- 
thing else  to  their  mother. 


SEA  FORTH.  67 

He  liked  them  to  be  as  free  with  him  as  they  were  with 
one  another,  and  Hester  found  it  best  to  let  it  be  so. 
Anything  was  better  than  the  danger  of  his  ceasing  to 
care  for  them.  Only  on  a  few  points  she  was  firm  ;  and 
one  of  these  was  a  distinct  refusal  whenever  he  asked  per- 
mission to  take  any  of  them  with  him  to  Monaco. 

As  with  her  boy,  so  with  her  little  girls,  she  found  the 
only  way  was  not  to  let  them  know  anything  about  the 
life  their  father  lived ;  on  all  such  matters  to  keep  them 
entirely  in  ignorance. 

With  the  boy,  of  course,  she  had  had  also  in  her  mind 
the  desire  to  preserve  him  from  imbibing  any  of  the 
tastes  which  had  proved  so  fatal  to  his  father,  and  to  keep 
him  from  being  in  any  way  mixed  up  with  the  people 
with  whom  her  husband  associated.  With  the  girls, 
though  it  was  less  important,  she  had  greater  difficulty, 
on  account  of  Godfrey's  desire  for  their  society.  But 
still  he  had,  so  far,  respected  her  wishes. 

And  so,  in  ignorance  of  the  troubles  around  them,  the 
gambler's  little  daughters  grew  and  flourished.  Their 
lines  were  cast  in  pleasant  places,  and  amid  flowers  and 
beauty  and  sunshine  their  gay  and  careless  childhood  was 
being  spent.  Light-hearted,  high-spirited,  loving  and 
beloved,  three  happier  creatures  did  not  exist  than  God- 
frey Seaforth's  little  daughters. 

And  yet  their  mother's  heart  was  often  sore  with  pity 
for  their  fate.  For  their  future  she  was  often  anxious, 
wondering  what  would  befall.  A  mighty  dread  would 
seize  her  with  a  sharp  pang  sometimes  at  the  thought  of 
how  it  would  all  be  if  she  should  ever  be  taken  from  them, 
and  they  be  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  their  father. 

This  dread  almost  always,  more  or  less,  haunted  her ; 
but  in  moments  of  sadness  and  depression  it  was  a  weight 
almost  heavier  than  she  could  bear.  It  required  at  such 


68  SEA  FORTH. 

times  the  exercise  of  all  her  faith  to  put  the  thought  away 
and  to  resign  her  children's  future  into  the  hands  of  God. 

It  was  only  that  she  did  not  see  what  other  trial  would 
teach  her  husband  the  lesson  that  she  felt  he  must  at  last 
be  called  upon  to  learn,  that  the  thought  of  her  own 
death  and  of  all  that  it  would  entail  was  so  ever-present 
to  her.  And  when  this  dread  was  thus  upon  her,  she  was 
terribly,  feverishly  anxious  that  her  boy  should  have  some 
settled  prospect  in  the  future,  not  only  for  his  own  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  also  of  his  little  sisters.  Surely,  surely 
Lord  Seaforth  must  at  last  do  something  for  him  ! 

This  day  the  weight  of  years  has  been  lifted  off  her 
mind,  for  the  long-expected  letter  has  arrived  this  morn- 
ing, and  driven  all  her  fears  away.  The  letter  which  had 
cost  Lord  Seaforth  so  much  time  and  thought  has  done 
this  for  the  woman  he  had  loved.  She  had  longed  for 
this  letter,  looked  for  it,  prayed  for  it,  and  now  here  it 
was  !  A  terse  and  business-like  production  truly ;  the 
family  lawyer  the  writer  of  it,  the  terms  of  the  letter 
lawyer-like  indeed.  Her  boy  was  bidden  for  as  any  other 
part  of  the  family  estate  might  be.  And  yet  she  was 
thankful,  joyful,  filled  with  gratitude. 

And  thus  it  was  that,  lost  in  thought,  oblivious  of  time 
and  of  what  was  passing  round  her,  the  voice  of  her 
little  daughter  broke  in  upon  her  rapt  meditation : 
"Mamma!  only  think!  What  do  you  think?  Papa 
has  taken  Olive  to  Monaco  !" 


SEA  FORTH.  69 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOW   WILL   HE   TAKE    IT? 

"WHAT  do  you  say,  dear?"  she  inquired,  as  little 
Hester,  surprised  at  getting  no  answer,  advanced  nearer 
and  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's  shoulder.  The  child 
eagerly  repeated  what  she  had  said  before. 

"  To  Monaco !  Olive?"  exclaimed  the  mother,  surprised 
out  of  her  usual  caution  on  the  subject  of  their  father 
before  the  children. 

Her  calm  expression  has  changed  all  in  a  moment,  and 
a  troubled,  anxious  look  has  come  over  it. 

God  help  her !  it  is  the  look  the  sight  or  hearing  of 
her  husband  has  ever  been  wont  to  bring. 

He  has  never  slighted  all  her  wishes  and  broken  through 
all  her  rules  on  this  subject  before,  and  she  is  wondering 
what  sudden  impulse  has  caused  him  to  do  so  to-day. 

"Papa  said  Oily  would  bring  him  luck"  said  little 
Hester,  "and  something  about  being  turned  into  gold. 
And  we  asked  him  what  luck  meant,  and  he  said  he  could 
not  tell  us.  Can  you,  mamma?" 

"Luck  is  a  kind  of  chance,"  the  mother  answered. 
"So  I  do  not  wonder  papa  said  he  could  not  tell  you 
what  it  meant.  For  we  know  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
chance:  don't  we,  Hessie?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  child.  "  I  wonder  papa  didn't  think 
of  that:  don't  you?" 

"  Perhaps  he  was  joking,"  said  Hester,  quickly.  "He 
is  always  joking,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hester,  doubtfully;  "but  I  don't  think 


yo  SEAFORTH. 

he  was  this  time.  He  got  quite  cross  about  it.  You're 
not  angry  with  Oily,  mamma,  are  you?"  she  added, 
anxiously:  "you  look  very  grave,  but  it  was  not  quite 
her  fault,  you  see." 

"No,  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "not  if  she  didn't  ask 
to  go." 

"She  didn't,"  said  the  child,  eagerly.  "Papa  asked 
us,  like  he  always  does,  '  Who's  coming  with  me  to 
Monaco  to-day?'  and  Oily  said,  'I  am.'  Papa  was  only 
joking  at  first,  as  usual ;  but  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
said  he  really  meant  it,  though  we  said  you  would  not 
like  it,  nor  Godfrey  either." 

A  quick  look  of  intelligence  came  into  the  wife's  eyes, 
and  then  she  sighed.  She  quite  understood  now  why  her 
wishes  had  been  set  at  naught,  and  Olive  taken  to  Monaco. 
She  knew  her  husband  to  be  in  a  most  curious  mood  ever 
since  the  receipt  of  that  letter, — all  sorts  of  feelings 
surging  in  his  breast  as  to  his  brother  in  the  past  and  as 
to  his  son  in  the  future.  He  was  hardly  responsible  for 
his  actions  to-day. 

She  told  little  Hester  she  might  run  out  into  the  gar- 
den again.  She  wanted  to  be  alone. 

She  read  the  precious  letter  again  and  again,  till  she 
was  roused  from  her  absorption  in  it  by  the  dearly-loved 
voice  of  her  son  in  the  garden,  talking  to  his  little  sisters. 

"  Where  is  mother?"  she  heard  him  say. 

"  In  the  drawing-room,"  answered  one  of  the  children. 
"  She's  got  a  letter  from  England  to-day,  that  she  keeps 
on  reading  over  and  over  again.  She  is  so  interested  in 
it  that  she  has  not  called  us  in  to  our  lessons  yet !  I  really 
think  she  must  be  going  to  give  us  a  whole  holiday  !" 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  and  the  mother  wondered 
whether  a  faint  suspicion  of  the  truth  had  entered  the 
boy's  breast.  She  would  fain  hope  it  might  be  so,  for  she 


SEAFORTH.  7! 

dreaded  announcing  it  to  him,  feeling  so  very  uncertain 
how  he  would  receive  the  news  she  had  to  tell.  The  sub- 
ject of  his  prospects  was  one  which  was  always  mutually 
avoided  between  them.  More  on  his  side  than  on  hers, 
for  she  had  wished  sometimes  to  talk  them  over  with  him, 
and  to  draw  his  attention  to  his  future  position  and  its 
attendant  responsibilities;  but  she  could  not  get  him  to 
talk  of  it. 

She  fancied  sometimes  that  he  looked  upon  his  heir- 
ship  as  the  source  of  all  his  troubles, — the  remote  cause 
of  his  father's  behavior  to  him.  But  she  was  not  sure. 
Questions  originally  she  had  never  encouraged  him  to 
make,  dreading  the  subjects  to  which  they  might  lead ; 
and  now  that  he  was  older  he  was  more  reserved  on  these 
points  than  she  was  herself.  Her  difficulties  with  regard 
to  him  had  always  been  very  great.  To  keep  up  his  filial 
reverence  for  his  father,  and  to  prevent  his  finding  out 
what  that  father  was,  had  been  two  great  objects  in  his 
education,  and  to  them  she  had  sacrificed  a  great  deal. 
She  had  had  scruples  in  her  own  mind  sometimes  about 
it,  as  to  whether  she  had  not  overdone  it  and  confused 
right  and  wrong  in  his  mind.  But  she  had  no  means  of 
knowing  what  effect  her  training  had  had.  That  he 
deeply  felt  his  father's  dislike  and  unkind  behavior  she 
knew ;  but  in  what  spirit  he  took  it  she  had  no  idea, 
nor  how  much  he  blamed  his  father  for  it.  All  such 
subjects  were  tabooed  between  them.  Now  that  he  was 
nearly  grown  up,  it  was  more  difficult  to  approach  sub- 
jects so  long  mutually  avoided,  and  he  almost  always 
turned  the  conversation  if  she  tried  to  introduce  them. 

She  had  thought  it  her  duty  latterly  to  speak  to  him 
on  the  probability  of  his  uncle's  sending  for  him  to  Eng- 
land, and  a  peculiar  look  had  come  over  his  face.  She 
had  pressed  him  to  tell  her  what  was  passing  in  his  mind, 


72  SEA  FORTH. 

but  he  had  answered  it  would  be  time  enough  when  the 
summons  came. 

She  felt  that  the  reserve  of  years  might  now  be  going, 
to  a  great  extent,  to  be  broken  down  between  them,  and 
she  shrank  a  little  from  the  prospect. 

She  heard  his  step  on  the  balcony,  and  nerved  herself 
for  his  entrance. 

"Could  I  help  it?"  was  the  cry  of  little  Joan  in  her 
lonely  life,  and  "  Could  I  help  it?"  seemed  to  be  echoed 
in  the  grave,  sad  expression  of  the  beautiful  youth  who 
now  came  into  the  room.  We  see  standing  before  us,  in 
flesh  and  blood,  the  picture  at  whose  shrine  the  lonely 
child  so  persistently  worships, — the  same  features,  the 
same  coloring,  the  same  mournful,  beautiful  eyes.  Almost 
do  we  expect  to  see  the  kneeling  figure,  and  to  hear  the 
appealing  cry,  "  Godfrey,  Earl  of  Seaforth  !  how  I  wish 
I  had  been  you  !" 

There  was  not  a  trace  in  him  of  his  father,  sisters,  or 
mother,  till,  meeting  her  glance,  he  smiled,  and  then  the 
likeness  of  expression  drove  even  the  likeness  to  the 
picture  away. 

"It  has  come  at  last,  Godfrey,"  she  said,  very  softly. 

He  did  not  start  or  wince,  but  he  turned  white  to  the 
very  lips,  and  compressed  his  hands  together  firmly. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  which 
he  strove  with  all  his  might  to  render  steady. 

She  trembled  a  little  inwardly  at  his  unwonted  display 
of  emotion,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  only  raised  her 
pleading  eyes  to  his  face,  as  if  to  pray  him  to  spare 
himself  and  her. 

"Let  me  see  the  letter,  mother,"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  handed  it  to  him  without  speaking,  and  he  read  it 
through  twice,  and  then  returned  it  to  her. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said,  anxiously. 


SEA  FORTH. 


73 


"Well,  mother,"  he  answered,  "what  answer  is  to  be 
given  ?" 

"What  answer?"  she  repeated,  while  her  heart  sank 
within  her.  "  Oh,  Godfrey  !  you  surely  do  not  mean  to 
say  you  thought  there  could  be  a  doubt.  What  answer 
could  there  be  but  one  ?" 

He  turned  quickly  away,  and  went  and  stood  by  the 
window. 

Hester  watched  him  anxiously.  "  Godfrey,  dear," 
she  implored,  "come  back  to  me." 

He  came  directly,  but  his  face  wore  such  a  peculiar 
expression  that  she  took  alarm,  and  begged  him  to  tell 
her  at  once  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  She  shrank 
from  the  idea  of  hearing  even  while  she  made  the  request, 
and  could  hardly  breathe  as  she  waited  to  hear  what  he 
would  say. 

"I  was  only  thinking,"  he  replied,  in  a  low,  concen- 
trated tone,  "  of  the  answer  /  should  send  if  it  all 
depended  upon  me." 

"What  would  it  be?"  she  whispered,  more  and  more 
alarmed  at  his  manner. 

"No!  a  thousand  times  no!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
vehemence  that  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  "  I 
would  fling  back  to  him  all  his  high-flown  offers  and  so- 
called  advantages,  and  say,  'You  have  exiled  and  dis- 
graced the  father,  and  the  son  will  share  in  that  unjust 
and  unmerited  punishment !'  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  breathless  with  the  excite- 
ment under  which  he  was  speaking,  and  then  went  on : 
"Tyrant  that  he  is,  and  always  has  been,  is  no  one  ever 
to  say  him  nay?  At  his  bidding  family  ties  are  to  be 
snapped  asunder,  and  whatever  he  chooses  to  ask  for  is  to 
be  instantly  granted.  At  his  command  /,  the  son  of  the 
brother  he  has  so  cruelly  wronged,  am  to  be  separated 
D  7 


74  SEA  FORTH. 

from  all  I  hold  most  dear,  and  to  make  my  home  with 
the  very  man  who  inflicted  that  cruel  wrong  !  The  very 
man,"  he  went  on,  with  increasing  excitement,  "who 
has  poisoned  our  family  life  at  the  root,  and,  by  making 
my  father  hate  me,  been  the  cause  of  the  unhappy  division 
in  our  home.  What  are  all  the  things  he  offers  me 
matched  against  those  he  has  cost  me  ?  And  is  it  for  my 
sake  or  my  father's  sake  that  he  makes  this  proposal? 
No  !  he  turns  to  us  when  everything  else  has  failed,  for 
his  own  ends,  for  the  sake  of  the  family,  his  name,  his 
property.  And  I  would  gladly  tell  him  that  I  would 
never  touch  a  penny  of  his  money,  and  that  I  wish  I  did 
not  bear  his  name  !" 

Poor  Hester  !  As  he  spoke,  all  the  old  scruples  woke 
up  in  her  breast  with  greater  force  than  ever.  Had  she 
done  well  to  let  him  grow  up  with  such  a  false  view  of 
past  events?  Ought  she  to  have  allowed  him  to  make 
this  false  hero  of  his  father  ?  Ought  she  to  have  shown 
him  a  little  what  manner  of  man  his  father  was  ?  What 
ought  she  to  have  done  ?  How  ought  she  to  have  acted  ? 

Her  own  sense  of  justice  almost  made  her  long  to  clear 
his  uncle  to  him, — to  hold  up  the  curtain  that  overhung 
the  past  and  unfold  to  him  the  history  of  the  two 
brothers'  early  lives, — to  show  him  how  severely  that 
uncle  had  suffered,  how  blow  upon  blow  had  descended 
upon  him,  till  this  last  but  not  least  heavy  had  fallen,  of 
having  to  sue  humbly  at  the  feet  of  his  brother  for  the 
heir  who,  though  indisputably  his,  was  not  his  own  son. 

She  could  not  answer;  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 
She  sat  silent,  wondering  if  by  any  means  she  could  clear 
the  innocent  without  blaming  the  guilty.  But  no ;  she 
saw  it  could  not  be  done.  She  could  not  justify  the.pne 
without  showing  how  deeply  the  other  had  been  to  blame, 
— could  not  enlighten  the  mind  of  the  son  without  black- 


SEA  FORTH.  75 

ening  the  character  of  the  father, — could  not  tell  a  part : 
it  must  be  all,  or  none. 

Once  more  Harold  must  be  sacrificed  to  Godfrey.  She 
must  hold  her  tongue  forever.  It  was  too  late.  The 
silence  of  years  could  not  be  broken  now.  But  the  effort 
it  was  to  her  was  so  great  that  she  sat  like  a  statue,  her 
hands  tightly  clasped  together,  and  her  heart  beating 
wildly. 

Godfrey  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"Does  my  father  know  of  this  letter?"  he  said,  with 
his  usual  quiet  manner. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  :  "  he  read  it  before  he  started." 

"And  his  wish  is " 

"That  the  proposal  should  be  accepted." 

"  When  is  he  going  to  answer  it?" 

"  He  has  done  so  already,"  she  forced  herself  to  an- 
swer; but  her  voice  trembled  and  shook.  "The  answer 
is  written  and  sent." 

He  started  and  turned  away.  "  So  soon  !  Without 
one  word  of  consultation  with  me!"  escaped  from  his  lips 
in  the  surprise  of  the  moment.  "  But  of  course,"  he 
added,  bitterly,  "he  is  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  me.  It  is 
only  natural  he  should  wish  me  out  of  his  sight." 

"Oh,  Godfrey!"  she  cried,  "do  you  want  to  break 
my  heart?" 

He  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  calm  and  tender. 

"Oh,  mother!  mine  is  almost  broken  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  you." 

"But  still  you  will  go,  darling?"  she  pleaded,  raising 
her  face,  streaming  with  tears,  to  his. 

"Still  I  will  go,  mother,"  he  answered,  sadly,  as  he 
bent  over  her  and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 

A  step  outside  made  them  both  start.  She  hastily  dis- 
engaged herself  from  his  embrace,  almost  pushing  him 


76  SEAFORTH. 

from  her ;  and  he  started  back,  and  tried  to  appear  as  if 
he  were  intent  on  some  newspapers  which  lay  upon  the 
table.  The  next  moment  the  husband  and  father  walked 
into  the  room. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

FOR   OLD    SAKES*    SAKE. 

GODFREY  SEAFORTH  gave  a  quick,  suspicious  glance  at 
his  wife's  agitated  countenance,  and  his  eye  rested  on  his 
son  for  a  moment  with  an  angry  scowl.  "I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  Hester,"  he  said;  and  the  boy  took  the 
hint  and  left  the  room. 

"What  is  it,  Godfrey?"  she  said,  rousing  herself 
eagerly.  She  had  a  faint  hope  that  some  twinge  of  con- 
science had  brought  her  husband  home,  to  talk  over  his 
brother's  letter  and  to  show  some  little  interest  in  his 
son's  affairs. 

"It's  about  that  little  goose,  Oily,"  he  said,  with  a 
light  laugh. 

"Oily!"  she  said,  her  surprise  and  disappointment 
showing  themselves  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  Oily,"  he  repeated.  "Why,  Hester,  what  an 
odd  woman  you  are !  I  have  been  expecting  a  tremen- 
dous 'rowing'  from  you,  and  you  seem  quite  unconscious 
that  anything  unusual  has  occurred.  Didn't  Hessie  tell 
you  I  had  taken  Olive  to  Monaco  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Godfrey,"  she  said,  reproachfully.  "I  did 
not  think  you  would  have  done  such  a  thing." 

"  Well,  it  has  not  affected  you  much,"  he  said ;  "  you 
seem  to  be  thinking  of  something  else." 


SEA  FORTH.  77 

"  I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  think  of  to-day,  dear,' 
she  said,  wistfully,  "as  you  know." 

He  frowned,  and  went  on  talking  as  if  she  had  not 
spoken.  His  mood,  too,  changed,  and  he  became  tire- 
some and  teasing. 

"  It's  been  a  failure  taking  the  child  for  luck,"  he  said, 
stretching  himself  and  yawning.  "But  don't  you  scold 
her,  Hester,  for  coming.  I've  guaranteed  her  a  peaceful 
home-coming,  for  she's  frightened  to  death  at  the  thoughts 
of  a  row.  So  vent  your  indignation  on  me." 

Hester  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  She  wondered  what 
he  could  be  driving  at.  The  relationship  between  herself 
and  her  children  was  such  a  perfect  one,  and  he  knew  as 
well  as  she  did  that  there  never  were  any  "  rows"  between 
them,  and  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  possibility 
of  Olive  being  "  frightened  to  death."  That  there  was 
something  behind  she  felt  sure. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said,  wearily. 

He  was  delighted,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together.  "I 
thought  I  should  get  a  '  rise,'  "  he  said. 

Poor  Hester !  she  was  not  equal  to  his  trifling  to-day. 
With  her  boy's  earnest  voice  and  fervent  words  ringing 
in  her  ears,  she  felt  she  could  not  bear  it.  And  a  feeling 
of  anger  against  her  husband  rose  in  her  heart  that  he 
should  go  on  like  this  when  he  knew  how  full  her  thoughts 
were  of  something  else.  Consideration  for  her,  she 
thought,  apart  from  any  feeling  about  the  circum- 
stances, ought  at  any  rate  to  have  some  effect  upon  him. 
She  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  averted  her  eyes 
quickly. 

We  must  not  attempt  to  fathom  the  thoughts  which 

were  passing  through  the  wife's  mind ;  but  for  ourselves 

we  may  say  that  Godfrey  Seaforth,  sitting  there,  was  a 

sorry  object.     His  whole  appearance  had  a  "  going-down- 

7* 


78  SEA  FORTH. 

hill"  look;  his  hair  unkempt,  his  dress  untidy,  a  short 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  "devil-may-care"  expression  on 
his  still  handsome  face.  How  ill  he  filled  the  place  just 
vacated  by  the  beautiful  youth  his  son  !  What  a  contrast 
he  was,  in  every  way,  to  him  ! 

Did  some  such  thought  flit  through  the  wife  and 
mother's  mind  ere  she  turned  so  quickly  away  ?  Ah ! 
but  Hester  had  loved  him  once,  and  that  was  the  keynote 
of  her  lifelong  patience  with  him.  Whatever  he  might 
be  now,  once  he  had  been  her  girlhood's  hero,  and  traces 
of  that  hero  remained  still.  With  all  his  weaknesses,  all 
his  unprincipled  ways,  he  was  still  the  same  Godfrey  who 
had  loved  her  when  she  needed  love  so  much,  and  gen- 
erously came  to  her  aid  when  she  wanted  help  so  sorely. 
And  for  the  sake  of  old  snnny  days  of  love  and  happi- 
ness, for  "old  sakes'  sake,"  much  can  be  borne  with  and 
forgiven. 

Something  in  the  glance  she  gave  him  did  not  please 
him,  and  he  asked  her  why  she  looked  at  him  in  that 
contemptuous  way. 

"I  did  not  mean  to,  indeed,  dear  Godfrey,"  she  said, 
gently:  "only  when  you  are  in  this  teasing  mood  I  know 
it  is  no  use  asking  you  questions,  and  I  felt  rather  out  of 
heart,  as  I  wanted  to  hear  about  Oily." 

"  She's  quite  safe,"  he  said,  "and  in  the  orange-grove 
with  the  others.  She  brought  me  no  luck,  the  little 
wretch, — not  a  five-franc  piece." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Hester,  gravely.  "  It  will  not 
encourage  you  to  take  her  again." 

He  chuckled  to  himself,  and  then  said,  "You  don't 
ask  what  train  we  came  back  by,  or  how  we  managed  to 
be  home  again  so  soon." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  not 
an  idea  what  o'clock  it  is.  I  have  been  sitting  here  ever 


SEA  FORTH. 


79 


since  you  left,  and  have  no  notion  how  time  has  been 
going." 

"What  have  you  been  thinking  about?"  he  asked. 
Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  added,  with  a 
sneer,  "  I  need  not  ask,  though.  Such  concentration 
and  absorption  could  have  but  one  object.  Few  thoughts 
could  detain  you  idle,  save  those  connected  with  that 
immaculate  son  of  yours,  that  young  Admirable  Crich- 
ton." 

"  Oh,  Godfrey  !"  she  said,  earnestly;  "he  is  going  to 
leave  me.  Do  you  grudge  the  poor  boy  a  few  hours  of 
my  attention?" 

"Poor  boy,  indeed!"  he  retorted:  "the  luckiest 
young  dog  that  ever  lived.  What  nonsense  you  talk, 
Hester  !  If  ever  any  one  was  born  with  a  gold  spoon  in 
his  mouth,  it  is  this  '  poor  boy,'  as  you  call  him." 

Hester  knew  she  was  on  dangerous  ground,  but  the 
prospect  of  her  boy's  departure  made  her  bolder  than 
usual,  and  she  tried  to  make  a  little  effect  on  her  husband. 
"  Godfrey,"  she  said,  "won't  you  talk  over  his  affairs  a 
little?  There  will  be  so  much  to  settle  and  arrange,  and 
so  many  things  to  get.  Won't  you  sit  down  and  talk 
over  ways  and  means  with  me,  and  interest  yourself  in 
him  just  for  once?  It  won't,"  she  added,  while  her 
voice  faltered,  "be  for  long  that  you  will  have  a 
chance." 

"  Not  I !"  he  said,  turning  on  his  heel.  "I'm  going 
up  to  change  my  coat,  and  then  I  want  you  to  come  and 
take  a  stroll  with  me.  I  shan't  go  to  Monte  Carlo  to- 
night. Olly's  upset  my  luck.  And  as  to  ways  and  means, 
why,  good  gracious,  if  Harold  wants  things  done  prop- 
erly, he  must  send  the  money.  I've  got  none  to  spare. 
And  I  can't  be  bothered  about  the  boy's  kit.  Let  him 
see  to  it  himself.  Why,  when  I  was  his  age  I  looked  after 


8o  SEA  FORTH. 

myself,  and  ran  up  my  own  bills,  and  had  got  into  a 
hundred  messes  and  out  again.  You  forget  how  old  the 
fellow  is  getting." 

So  saying,  and  with  a  light  laugh,  Godfrey  Seaforth 
stepped  out  on  the  balcony  and  lit  another  pipe.  "Here!" 
he  shouted.  "Big  Bear,  Middle  Bear,  Little  Bear !  come 
up  with  me  while  I  dress." 

Hester  sat  very  still  after  he  was  gone,  while  thoughts 
passed  through  her  mind  as  so  often  in  her  long  married 
life  they  had  passed  before,  always  leaving  behind  them 
the  one  dominant  feeling, — hopelessness  ! 

She  was  roused  by  the  consciousness  that  she  was  not 
alone  in  the  room.  Some  one  was  either  sitting  or  stand- 
ing on  the  balcony,  half  inside  the  room,  where  her  hus- 
band had  been  a  little  while  before.  She  turned  her  head 
towards  the  window,  and  there  she  saw  a  little  huddled-up 
figure,  with  downcast  head,  shaking  with  suppressed  sobs. 

"  Olive  !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  sobs  burst  out  at  the  sound  of  her  name,  and  the 
repentant  child  flew  across  the  room,  sprang  into  her 
mother's  lap,  and  hid  her  face  on  her  shoulder. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  mamma,  so  sorry!"  she  murmured, 
through  her  sobs. 

Hester  put  her  arms  round  the  little  girl  and  kissed  her 
fondly.  "I  forgive  you,  darling,"  she  whispered;  and 
by  degrees  Olive's  sobs  ceased,  and  she  told  her  story. 

Hester  now  learned  for  the  first  time  that  the  child  and 
her  father  had  never  been  to  Monaco  at  all.  Either  the 
child's  entreaties  to  take  her  home  had  moved  him,  or 
else  he  had  got  bored  at  the  idea  himself,  or  some  con- 
science towards  his  wife  had  restrained  him  at  the  last 
from  carrying  out  his  intentions.  Anyhow,  he  had  not 
been,  and  both  she  and  poor  little  Olive  might  have  been 
spared  much  unnecessary  suffering. 


SEAFORTH.  8 1 

Hester  sighed  deeply  as  she  listened.  Olive  was  the 
child  whose  character  gave  her  the  most  anxiety.  She 
had  all  her  father's  light,  careless  ways,  and  unconcern 
for  the  future  for  the  sake  of  the  present.  Only  with  it 
all  she  had  what  he  never  had,  a  very  tender  conscience 
and  a  very  truthful  disposition.  On  this  child  Godfrey 
worked  terrible  mischief;  and  his  dealings  with  her 
were  always  a  painful  anxiety  to  Hester.  She  often 
had  to  stand  as  a  wall  of  defence  between  Olive  and  her 
father. 

She  sent  the  little  girl  away  happy,  and  then  gave  her- 
self up  to  the  deep  rest  of  the  thought  that  her  children's 
future  was  not  altogether  vague  and  indefinite  now ;  that 
one  at  least  was  amply  provided  for  and  in  safe  hands, 
and  that  in  the  days  to  come  he  would  be  an  able  and 
worthy  protector  for  his  little  sisters. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MEAN   TO   THE   LAST. 

THERE  was  but  little  time  between  the  arrival  of  Lord 
Seaforth's  letter  and  the  boy's  departure.  Mother  and  son 
saw  but  little  of  each  other  in  the  interval,  for  Godfrey 
the  elder  seemed  determined  to  keep  them  apart  as  much 
as  possible.  He  hardly  went  to  Monaco  at  all,  and  was 
more  tenacious  than  ever  of  his  claims  on  his  wife's  com- 
panionship. It  was  hard  to  say  whether  this  was  most 
trying  to  Hester  or  his  unconcealed  joy  at  his  son's  de- 
parture, which  showed  itself  continually  in  ill-timed  high 
spirits.  She  particularly  wanted  to  have  a  great  deal  of 


82  SEAFORTH. 

conversation  with  her  son  on  the  subject  of  his  behavior 
to  his  uncle.  She  had  been  alarmed  about  this  ever  since 
his  outburst  of  feeling  had  shown  her  in  what  light  he 
regarded  him ;  and  she  wanted  to  exact  a  promise  from 
him  that  he  would  for  her  sake  preserve  outwardly,  at  any 
rate,  a  proper  demeanor  towards  him.  Just  so  much  and 
no  more  did  she  contrive  to  accomplish.  She  was  not 
able  to  enlarge  upon  the  subject  as  she  had  wished. 

Godfrey  the  elder  was  certainly  in  a  most  curious  mood. 
For  sometimes  there  would  be  sudden  reactions  from  his 
high  spirits,  and  it  would  be  evident  that  the  thought  of 
the  future  opening  before  the  boy  had  revived  all  his  old 
bitterness  of  feeling  with  regard  to  his  own  fate.  His 
manner  to  his  son  was  odious,  and  constantly  betrayed 
his  ill  will  and  jealousy.  Then  also  he  was  angry  and 
resentful  at  the  sight  of  the  sorrow  that  reigned  in  his 
home  at  the  prospect  of  the  boy's  loss.  It  irritated  him 
to  see  the  love  of  the  little  girls^ for' their  brother  so 
undisguisedly  brought  out, — to  hear  them  crying  them- 
selves to  sleep  at  night,  and  to  find  them  less  ready  and 
eager  to  run  after  him  than  usual. 

These  feelings  culminated  in  an  act  of  despotism  on 
the  day  of  the  departure,  and  he  prevented  his  little 
daughters  at  the  last  moment  from  accompanying  their 
brother  to  the  station,  saying  he  wanted  them  to  remain 
with  him.  He  would  fain  have  detained  his  wife  also, 
but  a  look  in  her  eyes  told  him  that  his  efforts  would  be 
fruitless. 

But  he  could  not  prevent  the  children  sobbing  round 
their  brother  in  the  orange-grove,  clinging  to  him  with 
many  tender  words  and  caresses,  crying  their  little  hearts 
out  at  his  departure,  though  beguiled,  child-like,  by  the 
fancy  that  he  would  soon  return.  And  he  turned  his 
back  upon  the  touching  picture,  scowling  as  he  went, 


SEAFORTIf.  83 

without  ever  dreaming  of  taking  farewell  himself  of  the 
son  he  might  never  see  again. 

The  mother's  hands  were  pressed  upon  her  beating 
heart,  torn  with  conflicting  feelings.  Anger  against  her 
husband  struggled  in  her  breast  with  sorrow  for  her  son 
and  grief  at  the  pained  look  she  saw  gather  on  his  face. 
Should  she  interfere?  But  what  could  she  do? 

The  little  girls  settled  the  question.  "  Papa  !  papa  !" 
they  cried,  rushing  after  him,  and  seizing  him  by  the 
coat-tails,  "come  back.  You  have  not  said  good-by  to 
Godfrey." 

"Hands  off!  Let  me  alone!"  he  said,  pettishly, 
shaking  them  off. 

The  children  fell  back  alarmed,  but  the  boy,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  came  forward,  holding  out  both  his 
hands.  "Won't  you  say  good-by  to  me,  father?"  he 
said,  mournfully. 

I  think  Godfrey  would  have  refused  the  boy's  proffered 
hand  even  then,  had  he  not  met  his  wife's  fixed  gaze.  It 
probably  expressed  more  than  she  was  aware  of.  For  a 
feeling  of  shame  seemed  to  come  over  him,  and  he  just 
touched  his  son's  hand  for  a  minute  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  saying,  lightly,  "  Bon  voyage  /"  Then,  as  if  with 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  a  look  of  hatred  came  into 
his  face,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel,  muttering  what 
sounded  very  like  an  imprecation. 

"  Come  along,  dear,"  said  Hester,  faintly,  to  her  son, 
hoping  he  might  not  have  heard;  "we  shall  be  late  for 
the  train."  And  the  boy  obeyed,  casting  as  he  did  so  a 
lingering  glance  at  his  father's  figure  disappearing  rapidly 
in  the  direction  of  the  house. 

Half  an  hour  later  Hester  returned  alone. 

Her  husband  was  leaning  over  the  balcony,  smoking. 


g4  SEAFOR  Til. 

"What  a  time  you  have  been  !"  he  said,  as  she  ap- 
proached. "The  poor  children  are  quite  tired  of  wait- 
ing, and  I  wouldn't  start  without  you." 

"I  cannot  walk  with  you  to-night,  Godfrey,"  she  said, 
wearily.  Her  heart  was  too  full,  and  his  light  manner 
and  evident  forgetfulness  of  his  recent  conduct  jarred 
painfully  upon  her  overwrought  feelings. 

"Why  not?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  I  thought  you 
would  be  in  the  highest  spirits  now.  Haven't  you  got 
the  very  thing  you've  been  wishing  for  all  these  many 
years?" 

She  met  his  eye  fully,  for  her  spirit  was  roused  and 
gave  her  courage  for  an  instant. 

"Yes,  Godfrey,"  she  said,  firmly,  "I  have;  and  God 
knows  how  I  thank  him  that  my  boy  should  be  removed 
from  a  home  where  his  young  life  has  been  saddened  by 
neglect  and  unkindness.  I  am  thankful — more  than 
thankful — filled with  joy  and  gratitude " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  for  her  voice  shook  and  fal- 
tered and  was  choked  by  a  rising  sob. 

"Nevertheless,"  she  added,  with  a  bitter  burst  of 
weeping,  as  she  turned  hastily  away,  "nevertheless  the 
light  of  mine  eyes  is  gone  from  me !" 


SEA  FORTH.  85 


CHAPTER   XVI. 
LADY  SEAFORTH'S  PLANS. 

THE  setting  sun  of  an  autumn  afternoon  is  shedding  its 
glory  over  the  wide-stretching  park  and  richly-wooded 
surroundings  of  Seaforth,  and  deepening  the  tints  of  the 
decaying  leaves  till  the  foliage  looks  one  rich  mass  of 
gold.  Every  window  of  the  stately  old  house  shines  and 
flashes  as  the  glass  catches  the  rays  of  the  sun  as  it  sinks 
to  rest.  The  sunset  is  followed  by  a  very  chill  twilight, 
and  there  is  a  suspicion  of  frost  in  the  air.  Nevertheless, 
the  drawing-room  windows  are  still  open,  and  entering 
by  them  we  will  pass  through  a  suite  of  grand  old  rooms 
till  we  reach  the  snug  little  boudoir,  where  Lady  Seaforth 
with  one  of  her  sisters  is  sitting  at  tea. 

Lady  Seaforth,  somewhat  stouter  than  of  yore,  but 
handsome  still  and  energetic  as  ever,  is  presiding  over 
the  tea-table,  and  her  faded,  careworn-looking  sister, 
Lady  Margaret  Cartwright,  is  knitting  by  the  fire.  "I 
am  sorry  you  have  missed  the  boys,  Maggie,"  Lady  Sea- 
forth is  saying.  "It  is  so  unusual  for  them  ever  to  go 
away  in  the  holidays ;  but  on  this  occasion  I  was  obliged 
to  send  them  up  to  London  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
their  aunt.  They  return  on  Monday." 

"In  time  for  the  ist  of  September,  I  suppose,"  said 
Lady  Margaret. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Seaforth,  with  a  smile,  "  they  would 
not  miss  the  ist  for  all  the  aunts  in  the  world  ;  and  so 
they  begged  this  visit  might  be  paid  now  instead  of  later. 


86  SEAFORTIL 

You  must  positively,  you  say,  go  to-morrow?  You  could 
not  stay  over  Monday  to  see  them  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  would  be  quite  impossible,"  answered 
her  sister.  "William  must  be  home  by  Saturday  night." 

Lady  Margaret  Cartwright  was  the  poor  sister  of  the 
family.  She  had  married  a  hard-working  clergyman  in 
the  coal  country,  and  had  a  large  family.  Few  and  far 
between  were  her  visits  to  Seaforth.  She  and  her  hus- 
band could  so  seldom  be  spared  from  home.  Now  that 
her  children  (they  were  all  boys)  were  older  and  getting 
out  in  the  world,  she  was  more  at  liberty,  but  only  for 
between  Sunday  and  Sunday.  This  was  one  of  these 
occasions,  and  the  visit  was  to  end  the  following  day. 

Boys  were  naturally  her  chief  interest,  and  her  favorite 
topic  of  conversation. 

"  When  does  Colin  leave  Eton  ?" 

"  This  will  be  his  last  half.  He  will  be  very  loath  to 
leave,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  I  can  fancy  no  life 
pleasanter  than  an  Eton  boy's,  when  he  has  nearly 
reached  the  top  of  the  school,  and  is  quite  a  little  king 
in  his  way.  Can  you?" 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  Lady  Margaret,  rather  bit- 
terly. She  liked  to  hear  about  her  sister's  sons,  and  en- 
couraged her  to  tell  her  of  their  Eton  life,  prospectus,  etc.  ; 
but  she  often  sighed  as  she  listened  and  mentally  compared 
their  circumstances  with  those  of  her  own  penniless  boys. 
Eton  versus  cheap  grammar-schools,  and  unlimited 
shooting  in  the  holidays  over  the  whole  estate  of  Seaforth 
versus  an  occasional  rabbit  by  the  kind  permission  of 
some  parishioner. 

"And  what  is  he  to  do  after  leaving  Eton  ?" 

"  The  University  comes  next,"  Lady  Seaforth  answered. 
"  I  mean  Colin  to  go  in  for  a  parliamentary  life  from 
the  very  first.  I  intend,  after  his  University  career, 


SEAFORTIL  87 

to  get  him  made  private  secretary  to  one  of  the  min- 
isters  ' ' 

"  The  Prime  Minister  preferred,  of  course,"  put  in 
Lady  Margaret,  with  a  little  laugh. 

" and  then  at  two- or  three-and-twenty  a  seat  in 

the  House  of  Commons.  You  see  that  by  that  time  our 
present  member  will  be  getting  very  old,  and  will,  I  am 
sure,  be  ready  to  retire.  I  feel  certain  he  will  not  offer 
himself  against  the  next  election.  And  Colin,  having 
lived  here  nearly  all  his  life,  is  quite  a  son  of  the  soil,  and 
immensely  popular  with  all  the  people  about.  He  is  just 
one  of  those  pleasant-mannered,  easy-going,  high-spirited 
boys  who  is  sure  to  be  a  favorite  among  the  tenantry  and 
laboring-classes.  So  I  consider  it  quite  a  foregone  con- 
clusion that  he  should  one  day  represent  the  county." 

"But,  Helen!"  exclaimed  Lady  Margaret,  "he  will 
be  very  poor.  How  can  he  afford  to  live  without  a  pro- 
fession ?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  her  sister,  "I  mean  him  to 
make  a  profession  out  of  it.  When  I  talk  of  his  going  in 
for  a  political  life,  I  mean  him  to  make  a  living  by  it, 
and  to  go  in  with  a  view  to  office  some  day.  Taken  by 
the  hand  early  by  a  minister,  he  is  sure  to  get  it  in  the 
end.  And  in  the  mean  time " 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  thought  poor  Lady  Margaret  to 
herself,  "I  suppose  that  generous  Lord  Seaforth  will  give 
him  a  handsome  allowance." 

Lady  Margaret  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of  poverty  and 
realization  of  its  difficulties  through  bitter  experience, 
that  generosity  was  almost  the  one  virtue  in  her  eyes. 
She  could  forgive  her  brother-in-law  everything  in  con- 
sideration of  his  behavior,  or  rather  what  she  imagined 
to  be  his  behavior,  to  her  sister's  sons. 

"And  Andrew?"  said  Lady  Margaret. 


88  SEA  FORTH. 

"The  University  also,"  said  Lady  Seaforth,  "with  a 
view  to  holy  orders." 

"I  see,"  said  Lady  Margaret,  with  a  smile:  "the 
family  living  !" 

"It  is  worth  twelve  hundred  a  year,"  said  Lady  Sea- 
forth, "and  the  present  incumbent " 

"  Will  take  himself  off  just  in  time,  like  the  member, 
I  suppose,"  interrupted  Lady  Margaret,  with  a  laugh 
which  she  could  not  suppress. 

But  Lady  Seaforth  was  much  too  full  of  her  plans  to 
see  the  vein  of  sarcasm  in  her  sister's  manner.  She  had 
no  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  could  not  look  at  herself 
from  another's  point  of  view.  She  was  always  quite  un- 
suspicious of  being  laughed  at.  Besides,  it  was  all  too 
serious.  These  plans,  which  she  had  just  divulged  to  her 
sister,  were  the  great  interest  of  her  life.  She  had  worked 
steadily  up  to  their  fulfilment  for  many  years.  The 
gratification  of  her  ambition  for  her  sons  was  her  great 
hope  and  consolation,  and  the  balm  in  a  life  which  was 
sore  with  many  vain  regrets  and  seared  with  one  bitter 
disappointment.  She  had  never  mentioned  her  plans  to 
her  husband,  but  felt  pretty  sure  of  his  co-operation  when 
the  time  came. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Lady  Margaret,  "you  are  a  fortunate 
woman,  Helen.  When  I  think  of  everything  being  so 
plain  and  easy  before  your  boys,  who  were  born  as 
penniless  and  as  prospectless  as  mine,  and  then  think  of 
my  Charlie  farming  in  Australia,  and  Johnny  in  India 
for  his  whole  life,  and  poor  Frank  in  a  counting-house 
at  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  the  other  three  quite 
unprovided  for  in  the  future,  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
the  good  things  of  this  life  are  very  unequally  distrib- 
uted." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a 


SEA  FORTH.  89 

servant,  who  advanced  to  Lady  Seaforth,  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice, — 

"  His  lordship  will  be  glad  to  speak  to  you,  my  lady, 
in  the  library." 

The  summons  was  as  unusual  as  it  was  unexpected. 

Lady  Seaforth  colored  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  as 
matter-of-fact  a  way  as  possible,  said,  "Tell  his  lordship 
I  will  come  directly." 

Lady  Seaforth  was  very  reserved  on  the  subject  of  her 
relations  with  her  husband.  She  would  not  therefore 
allow  her  sister  to  see  how  surprised  she  was  at  the  un- 
usual summons.  Leaving  her  cup  of  tea  untasted,  she 
arose  from  her  seat,  and  with  an  excuse  for  leaving  her, 
and  a  promise  of  a  speedy  return,  left  the  room. 

Lady  Margaret  sat  knitting  for  a  long  time  after  her 
sister  was  gone,  lost  in  meditation.  Lady  Seaforth's  agi- 
tated manner  had  not  been  lost  upon  her,  and,  ere  the 
heel  of  the  sock  was  turned,  a  new  phase  of  thought  had 
been  wrought  into  the  socks  that  were  on  their  way  to 
Australia.  The  half-bitter  look  which  her  face  had  worn 
during  her  conversation  with  her  sister  faded  away,  and 
some  inward  thought  brought  a  glow  to  her  eyes  and  soft- 
ened the  lines  of  her  mouth. 

The  contrast  between  her  boys'  lives  and  her  sister's 
might  be  very  sharp,  but  there  was  a  contrast  in  their 
own  lives  which  was  sharper  still.  A  careworn  face  rose 
before  her,  a  face  worn  with  toil  and  poverty,  but  wearing 
a  tender  smile.  It  was  the  face  of  William  Cartwright, 
and  the  inward  thought  was  the  memory  of  the  happy 
life  they  had  lived  together, — a  life  which,  in  spite  of  pov- 
erty and  anxiety  and  struggles,  had  been  ever  brightened 
by  the  love  they  bore  each  other,  and  the  perfect  sym- 
pathy which  existed  between  them. 

"  No  !"  she  said,  almost  aloud,  as  the  music  of  her  soul 


9o  SEAFORTH. 

kept  time  to  the  click  of  the  knitting-needles ;  "  no,  the 
good  things  of  this  life  are  not  so  very  unequally  distrib- 
uted after  all." 

%  She  had  time  for  plenty  of  reflection  on  the  subject,  for 
the  sock  was  finished  and  the  stitches  cast  off,  and  still 
her  sister  did  not  return. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

IN    THE  LION'S   DEN. 

WE  will  follow  Lady  Seaforth  into  her  husband's  pri- 
vate apartments,  and  enter  with  her  the  presence  of  the 
solitary  man,  sitting  as  usual  in  front  of  the  fire,  buried 
in  gloomy  thought. 

He  rose  at  her  entrance,  and  in  the  most  courtly  man- 
ner placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  then  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you,  Helen,"  he  said,  "on  a 
matter  of  great  importance  to  myself,  and  one  which  will 
not  altogether  be  without  its  effect  on  you." 

Lady  Seaforth's  heart  beat  quickly,  and  she  wondered 
what  could  be  coming. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  ever  explained  to  you  the  manner 
of  the  entailing  of  this  estate,  in  the  event  of  my  dying 
without  a  son." 

Lady  Seaforth  murmured  something  in  the  negative. 
This  was  a  most  unwelcome  subject,  and  her  breath  came 
quick  and  short. 

"  It  is  soon  told,"  he  resumed.  "  My  father  cut  off  my 
brother  with  a  shilling,  and  entailed  the  estate  over  his 
head  upon  my  brother's  son.  That  son,"  he  added, 


SEAFORTH. 


91 


emphatically,  "is  my  heir.  You  were  perhaps  not 
aware,"  he  added,  "  that  my  brother  had  a  son." 

"I  was  not  even  aware,"  she  said,  ''that  your  brother 
was  married.  If  you  remember,  you  told  me  before  our 
marriage  that  the  subject  of  your  brother  was  a  painful 
one,  and  that  your  wish  was  that  it  might  never  again  be 
mentioned  between  us.  That  wish  I  have  respected ;  and 
I  have  never,"  she  added,  with  a  little  warmth,  "  inquired 
of  any  one  else  what  you  did  not  see  fit  to  tell  me  your- 
self." 

"  You  have  done  well,"  he  said  :  "  the  subject  is  still, 
as  it  has  ever  been,  a  most  painful  one,  and  it  is  only 
necessity  that  makes  me  allude  to  it  now.  But  cer- 
tain conclusions,  to  which  I  have  lately  come,  force  it 
upon  me,  and  render  silence  on  the  subject  no  longer 
possible.  It  is  my  intention,  as  it  is  clearly  my  duty,  to 
adopt  my  nephew  and  to  bring  him  up  as  my  heir.  I 
must  do  my  best  to  counteract  the  impressions  which  I 
fear  such  a  life  as  he  must  have  led  with  such  a  father 
may  have  made,  and  to  try  and  fit  him  for  the  position 
he  will,  at  my  death,  hold.  My  only  fear  is  that  it  may 
already  be  too  late.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  can  no 
longer  delay  the  execution  of  my  duty;  and,  matters 
between  his  father  and  me  having  been  arranged,  it  only 
remains  for  me  to  inform  you  of  my  intentions  and  to  fix 
the  day  of  his  arrival.  I  have  named  next  Monday." 

Lord  Seaforth  ceased  speaking,  and  paused,  as  if 
expecting  a  reply. 

But  none  came.  Lady  Seaforth's  breath  was  coming 
in  such  short  gasps  that  she  could  not  steady  her  voice  to 
speak,  and  feelings  had  succeeded  each  so  quickly  in  her 
breast  while  he  was  speaking  that  his  abrupt  pause  found 
her  quite  unprepared  with  a  word.  Astonishment,  dis- 
may, resentment,  vain  regrets,  and  bitter  feelings  had  by 


92  SEA  FORTH. 

turns  had  possession  of  her,  habitual  fear  of  her  husband 
dominating  and  overpowering  all. 

The  old,  old  grievances  were  swelling  in  her  heart, — the 
old,  old  feelings  of  resentment  at  the  way  in  which  she 
was  treated,  at  the  way  her  opinions,  her  very  feelings, 
were  overlooked  ;  at  the  way  in  which  she  was  never  con- 
sulted, never  advised  with  ;  that  he  just  revolved  matters 
in  his  own  head,  and  then  informed  her  when  his  mind 
was  quite  made  up. 

Time  had,  to  a  certain  degree,  accustomed  her  to  this 
in  all  small  matters,  or  in  matters  only  affecting  himself; 
but  that  on  a  matter  of  such  moment  as  this,  on  one  so 
closely  affecting  them  both,  he  should  treat  her  just  the 
same  ! — He  might  at  least  have  asked  her  if  she  had  any 
objections  or  distaste  to  the  plan,  might  at  least  have 
considered  her  feelings  a  little,  might  at  any  rate  have 
given  her  a  little  time  to  consider.  But  no ;  she  was  no 
one,  and  nowhere.  She  and  her  feelings  were  equally 
disregarded  in  his  arrangements. 

The  old,  old  passionate  regrets  were  smiting  her  cruelly 
that  she  had  no  son  of  her  own.  New  feelings  of  hatred 
and  jealousy  were  rising  within  her  towards  this  unknown 
one  who  was  to  fill  the  place  her  son  would  have  had. 
The  pent-up  torrent  of  years  was  swelling  within  her,  and 
threatened  to  bear  her  self-control  away.  Let  that  tor- 
rent burst  its  bounds  and  come  rushing  out  in  speech, 
and  it  will  sweep  everything  before  it.  Let  her  give  way 
to  feeling  or  temper,  and  she  will  degrade  herself  before 
her  husband,  and  it  will  be  all  over  with  her.  Truly 
silence  was  her  only  safeguard,  and  she  stood  silent,  with 
her  hands  pressing  down  her  throbbing  breast. 

"I  can  allow  something  for  your  astonishment,"  Lord 
Seaforth  went  on,  finding  she  did  not  answer:  "  for  my- 
self, the  subject  has  been  on  my  mind  for  years.  Do 


SEA  FORTH. 


93 


not,  therefore,  force  yourself  to  express  any  feeling  on 
the  matter.  And  indeed  it  is  not  necessary.  The  advent 
of  this  boy  will  make  little  or  no  difference  to  you.  I 
intend  to  keep  him  under  my  own  strict  surveillance  until 
I  find  out  how  far  he  is  to  be  trusted.  For  this  purpose 
I  shall  give  him  a  suite  of  apartments  not  far  from  my 
own.  His  leisure  hours  will  be  spent  with  me,  and  he 
will  be  given  over  during  the  rest  of  the  day  to  a  tutor, 
whom  I  have  already  engaged.  You  see  clearly,  there- 
fore, that  the  new-comer  will  not  be  in  your  way,  and 
that  this  change  will  in  fact  be  nothing  personally  to 
you." 

Nothing  to  her  !  This  was  the  sharpest  pang  of  all ; 
these  concluding  words  were  the  cruellest  in  all  his  cruel 
speech.  As  if  their  interests  could  be  divided.  As  if, 
man  and  wife  as  they  were,  anything  that  affected  him 
could  be  without  its  effect  upon  her.  As  if,  loving  him 
as  she  did,  she  could  bear  to  see  him  endure  anything 
that  she  knew  would  be  a  trial  and  a  mortification  to  him. 
Was  it  nothing  to  her  to  feel  that  a  sharper  regret  at 
having  no  son  of  his  own  would  be  added  when  he  came 
to  see  the  graceless  son  of  an  outlawed  spendthrift  in  his 
home  as  his  recognized  heir?  Was  it  nothing  to  her 
to  have  this  boy  in  her  presence,  daily  parading  before 
her  her  grief  and  disappointment?  Oh,  she  could  have 
borne  it  all  better  if  it  had  not  been  for  those  unfeeling 
words. 

With  all  this  the  wife's  heart  was  so  painfully  smart- 
ing that  the  mother's  feelings  had  as  yet  had  no  place. 
But  suddenly,  with  a  fresh  pang,  came  the  thought  of 
her  own  boys !  Their  present  position !  their  future 
prospects  !  How  would  all  this  affect  them  ?  For  their 
sake  came  the  anger  she  had  not  felt  for  herself,  for  their 
sake  she  was  nearly  speaking  out,  and  indignantly  asking 


94  SEA  FORTH. 

if  it  was  fair  that  they  should  be  thrust  thus  suddenly  into 
such  baneful  society. 

But  before  she  could  use  this  weapon  in  her  own  de- 
fence, it  was  wrested  from  her. 

Ere  she  could  steady  her  voice  to  speak,  her  husband 
went  on,  "I  do  not  know  who my  nephew's  asso- 
ciates may  have  been,  nor  what  kind  of  life  he  may  have 
led.  It  will  be  well,  therefore,  that  there  should  be  no 
communication  between  him  and  your  sons  at  present. 
I  shall  not,  therefore,  at  first  ask  you  to  invite  him  to 
your  drawing-room,  nor  shall  I  bring  him  in  to  dinner 
among  your  guests.  I  intend,  however,  that  he  shall  be 
treated  in  every  respect  as  my  father's  grandson  and  my 
heir.  It  is  in  those  two  lights  that  I  wish  to  regard  him. 
I  wish  to  forget  that  he  is  my  brother's  son.  I  shall  my- 
self inform  the  household  of  his  intended  arrival,  and  of 
the  position  he  will  occupy  in  my  house.  I  shall  give 
orders  that  all  shall  look  upon  him  as,  and  treat  him  with 
the  respect  due  to,  their  future  master,  for,  were  I  to  die 
to-morrow,  he  would  infallibly  become  so." 

So  saying,  Lord  Seaforth  rose  from  his  seat  and  ad- 
vanced to  the  door.  And  before  his  wife  could  recover 
from  the  confusion  of  thought  into  which  she  had  been 
thrown,  she  found  he  was  holding  it  open  for  her,  and  that 
the  interview  was  over.  She  went  to  her  bedroom  as  in 
a  dream,  feeling  as  if  she  had  been  for  hours  in  her  hus- 
band's presence,  and,  entering  hastily,  locked  and  double- 
locked  the  door. 

Mr.  and  Lady  Margaret  Cartwright  dined  alone  with 
Lord  Seaforth  that  evening,  for  when  the  gong  sounded  a 
message  was  brought  to  the  drawing-room  that  Lady  Sea- 
forth had  such  a  bad  headache  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  appear. 


SEA  FOR  TIL  95 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS. 

KING'S  CROSS  STATION,  and  the  mid-day  train  for  the 
north  getting  near  its  time  for  starting. 

A  tall  and  handsome  youth  is  settling  himself  in  a 
second-class  carriage,  arranging  his  luggage,  etc.,  with 
all  the  independence  of  a  poor  man,  used  to  shift  for 
himself. 

The  train  was  very  full,  for  it  was  a  travelling  time  of 
year,  and  this  particular  train  was  a  great  favorite. 

Just  two  minutes  before  it  was  time  to  start,  two  tall,  fair 
boys  came  tearing  down  the  platform.  Thorough  types 
of  the  luxurious,  helpless  young  Englishman  they  appeared 
to  be.  They  had  nothing  in  their  own  hands  but  their 
umbrellas :  even  their  great-coats  and  railway-rugs  were 
carried  by  the  porters  who  were  hurrying  after  them. 
Their  luggage  they  appeared  to  leave  to  look  after  itself 
entirely ;  their  only  object  was  to  find  seats  in  the  train. 
In  this,  however,  they  were  not  successful.  Every  first- 
class  carriage  was  full.  In  vain  they  protested,  in  vain 
they  declared  that  places  must  be  found,  or  a  new  carriage 
added  to  the  train.  The  train  was  off,  and  the  guard, 
opening  the  door  of  a  second-class  compartment, — the 
same  in  which  the  first  traveller  we  mentioned  had  settled 
himself, — told  them  it  was  all  but  empty,  and  that  there 
was  just  time  for  them  to  jump  in.  There  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  Railway-rugs,  overcoats,  gun-cases,  and 
hat-boxes  were  pitched  in,  and  the  two  boys  took  their 
seats  just  as  the  whistle  sounded. 


96  SEAFORTH. 

Then  began  hunting  and  shouting.  "  Halloo  !  where's 
my  hat-box?"  "Are  you  sure  the  long  gun-case  is  in?" 
"Is  there  a  bag  there  with  an  F  on  it?"  "I  say!  call 
the  paper-boy.  I  want  '  Bell's  Life'  and  the  *  Sporting 
Gazette.'  Look  sharp!"  Tips  were  freely  held  out, 
porters  and  paper-boys  running  in  every  direction,  and 
the  newspapers  flung  in  at  the  windows  just  as  the  train 
slowly  glided  out  of  the  station. 

Eldest  sons  of  millionaires  any  one  would  have  sup- 
posed the  lads  to  be ;  and  yet  these  were  the  penniless 
sons  of  Colin  Fraser.  So  much  for  education. 

Their  fellow-traveller,  rolled  up  in  his  corner,  book  in 
hand,  watched  them  with  some  astonishment ;  but  after 
a  time  he  became  absorbed  in  his  book,  and  thought  no 
more  about  them. 

The  two  brothers  yawned,  sighed,  stretched  themselves, 
and  then  began  to  talk.  Their  conversation  was  all  of 
sport,  dogs,  keepers,  coverts,  and  speculations  on  the 
coming  shooting  season. 

The  stranger  read  on  quietly,  till  a  sentence  caught  his 
ear  in  which  the  words  "the  coverts  at  Seaforth"  occurred. 
He  colored  slightly,  turned  his  head  for  a  moment  towards 
the  speaker,  and  then  resumed  his  book.  The  action  was 
not  lost  on  the  eldest  of  the  two  brothers,  who  glanced 
that  way  for  a  moment.  By  and  by  he  and  his  brother 
took  up  the  papers,  and  began  reading  extracts  to  each 
other,  as  long  as  the  light  lasted,  of  the  shooting  on 
the  Scotch  moors,  and  what  bags  different  people  had 
made. 

It  was  getting  too  dark  to  read,  and  the  stranger  put 
down  his  book,  sat  up,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
As  he  did  so  he  caught  the  eye  of  the  eldest  brother  fixed 
upon  him  with  a  most  inquiring  expression,  and  soon  after 
he  said  something  to  his  brother  in  an  undertone  about 


SEA  FORTH. 


97 


an  "extraordinary  likeness."  But  the  whispered  conver- 
sation was  put  an  end  to  by  the  arrival  at  a  great  junction, 
where  they  all  got  out. 

The  train  which  went  on  to  Seaforth  Station  was  wait- 
ing on  the  branch  line.  Quietly  removing  all  his  things, 
the  stranger  transferred  them  to  another  second-class  car- 
riage, and  went  to  see  after  his  luggage.  Meanwhile  his 
late  companions  were  rushing  about,  absorbing  the  atten- 
tion of  all  the  porters.  They  were  treated  here  with  great 
consideration.  Every  one  was  looking  after  them  and 
their  luggage,  most  of  which  they  appeared  to  have  left 
behind. 

As  the  stranger  was  moving  towards  his  carriage,  he 
stumbled  against  the  eldest  brother.  Instantly,  in  a  very 
foreign  fashion,  he  raised  his  hat  and  apologized.  Young 
Fraser  half  raised  his,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  met  the  stran- 
ger's eye,  and  the  same  look  of  astonishment  passed  over 
his  face  as  had  come  into  it  before.  He  ran  after  the 
station-master,  and  apparently  made  some  inquiry.  But 
the  station-master  shook  his  head.  The  brothers  then  got 
into  a  first-class  carriage,  the  train  started,  and  they  lost 
sight  of  their  fellow-traveller. 

"Seaforth!  Seaforth!"  And  the  train  steamed  into 
the  station.  It  was  almost  dark,  but  just  light  enough  to 
show  a  neat  little  brougham  drawn  up  in  waiting,  and  a 
cart  for  luggage.  There  was  also  a  fly.  A  footman  stand- 
ing on  the  platform  began  at  once  to  peer  into  the  first- 
class  carriages. 

"  His  lordship's  own  brougham,  I  declare!"  said  Colin 
to  his  brother. 

"  Here  we  are,  William  !"  he  shouted  to  the  footman. 
"You  can  look  after  the  luggage,  and  we'll  go  on  without 
you." 

So  saying,  the  two  brothers  entered  the  brougham  and 
E  9 


98  SEA  FORTH. 

drove  off  immediately,  amid  a  general  raising  of  hats  from 
all  the  employes  at  the  station. 

The  footman,  meanwhile,  had  not  heard  what  was 
passing,  and  was  still  going  down  the  line,  looking  into 
all  the  carriages.  When  he  returned  from  an  apparently 
fruitless  search  and  found  the  brougham  gone,  he  looked 
rather  discomfited,  and  went  up  to  the  guard  and  began 
making  some  inquiries.  After  that  he  went  and  fetched 
the  luggage,  and  had  it  put  on  the  cart,  and,  calling  out 
to  the  fly  that  it  would  not  be  wanted,  took  his  seat  by 
the  coachman  on  the  luggage-cart,  and  drove  off. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  stranger  had  been  gathering  all 
his  things  together,  and  getting  his  boxes  out  of  the  train. 
He  now  came  down  the  platform,  and,  going  up  to  the 
station-master,  asked  if  he  could  hire  anything  to  take 
him  on  to  Seaforth.  The  answer  was  doubtful.  The  fly 
was  too  far  gone  to  be  called  back ;  there  was  a  spring 
cart  at  the  inn,  but  nothing  much  in  the  way  of  a  horse. 
The  inn  itself  was  some  way  off;  it  would  take  ten 
minutes  to  get  there.  The  stranger  was  huddled  up 
in  a  great-coat,  and  no  guess  at  his  station  could  be 
made.  • 

He  had  his  luggage  put  upon  a  truck,  and  walked  off 
by  the  side  of  the  man  who  wheeled  it  in  the  direction 
indicated,  till  he  reached  the  inn,  where  he  succeeded, 
after  some  trouble,  in  getting  the  horse  and  cart  harnessed, 
and  in  securing  a  driver  who  knew  the  way. 

The  drive  was  long,  the  stranger  very  silent.  They 
reached  the  gates  of  the  park  at  last,  and,  after  driving 
two  miles  up  an  avenue,  turned  off  to  the  right,  and  went 
by  a  side-road  to  the  stables,  and  through  them  to  the 
back  entrance. 

A  maid,  with  a  light  in  her  hand,  peered  curiously  at 
the  stranger  as  he  got  out  of  the  cart,  and,  bearing  all  his 


SEA  FORTH.  99 

own  bundles,  walked  up  to  the  kitchen-door,  and  seemed 
about  to  enter. 

"Who  did  you  please  to  want?"  she  said. 

"Lord  Seaforth,"  was  the  answer. 

The  girl  looked  more  closely  at  him,  and  more  suspi- 
ciously, but  consented  at  last  to  lead  him  through  the 
stone  passage  to  the  steward's  room,  where  she  handed 
him  over  to  one  of  the  men-servants,  who  was  standing 
at  the  door,  and  to  whom  the  stranger  gave  his  name. 
"This  way,  sir,"  said  the  man,  respectfully. 

And  thus  the  future  master  of  Seaforth  entered  the 
home  of  his  forefathers. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  MEETING  OF  UNCLE   AND   NEPHEW. 

THE  scraping  of  the  carriage-wheels  on  the  gravelled 
sweep  had  made  more  than  one  heart  leap  within  the 
walls  of  Seaforth.  The  mother,  longing  for  her  boys,  and 
yet  shrinking  from  what  she  had  to  tell  them.  And,  in 
his  own  room,  the  solitary  man,  sitting  before  his  fire, 
brooding  as  usual.  He  is  trying  to  realize  that  in  a  few 
minutes  Godfrey  and  Hester's  son  will  be  before  him. 
He  is  telling  himself  that  he  hardly  knows  what  a  task  he 
has  imposed  on  himself.  He  is  wondering  if  he  has  suffi- 
ciently realized  what  a  daily  cross  that  presence  in  his 
home  will  be.  It  will  bring  in  its  train  every  sort  of 
association  and  recollection  ;  and  names  long  silent  and 
dead  will  sound  upon  his  ears  again.  What  will  be  the 
effect  of  the  bridging  over  the  gulf  that  divides  him  from 


loo  SEAFORTH. 

his  buried  youth,  of  thus  calling  up  the  ghosts  of  the  past 
and  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  former  years  ? 

A  bustle, — an  arrival, — and  he  rose  slowly  and  took  his 
way  to  the  hall  door.  He  arrived  in  time  to  meet  the 
two  tall  lads,  his  stepsons,  tearing  wildly  in.  At  sight  of 
him  they  stopped  short,  and,  pulling  themselves  up,  came 
forward  and  shook  hands  respectfully.  He  returned  their 
greeting  formally,  and  then  went  on  to  the  door. 

The  carriage  was  gone  :  there  was  no  other  arrival ! 
Puzzled  and  alarmed,  he  made  some  inquiries  of  the 
servants  who  were  at  the  door,  and  learned  that  no  one 
else  had  arrived  by  the  train. 

He  retraced  his  steps,  chilled  and  disappointed,  with 
the  feeling  which  so  many  know,  which  follows  on  hav- 
ing braced  oneself  up  to  the  performance  of  something 
dreaded,  and  finding  the  performance  delayed  and  the 
duty  still  hanging  over  one.  The  revulsion  of  feeling 
made  him  angry,  and  he  revenged  himself  on  the  inno- 
cent cause. 

"I  thought  as  much!"  he  muttered:  "run  away  on 
the  road, — strayed.  I  ought  to  have  sent  some  one  over 
to  fetch  him, — a  bear-leader  of  some  kind." 

He  regained  his  room,  full  of  bifter  feelings,  wonder- 
ing what  course  he  had  better  pursue.  To  telegraph  to 
Nice  to  know  if  had  really  started,  or  to  employ  a  detec- 
tive to  find  out  on  what  part  of  the  road  he  had  strayed  ? 
He  sat  down  to  think  it  out,  bitter  thoughts  of  the  re- 
newal of  old  disgraces  filling  his  mind, — placards  and 
hand-bills  describing  a  creature  like  that  Godfrey  of  old. 
He  began  involuntarily  to  compose  the  advertisement. 
"A  tall  fair  youth,  light  curly  hair,  eyes  rather  blood- 
shot, loose  shirt-collar,  short  pipe  in  his " 

"Mr.  Seaforth,  my  lord." 


SEAFORTH.  Ioi 

Lord  Seaforth  started  from  his  seat,  and  advanced  a 
few  steps,  just  in  time  to  come  almost  up  against  the  tall 
dark  youth  who  had  followed  the  servant  into  the  room. 
At  the  sight  of  this  youth,  Lord  Seaforth  started  back, 
uttering  an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  The  youth, 
startled,  fell  back  a  few  paces  too,  and  there  they  re- 
mained, gazing  at  each  other. 

The  butler  retired,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and 
Lord  Seaforth  stood  still,  gazing  at  the  figure  in  front  of 
him  without  saying  a  word,  his  eyes  glowing  with  some 
unusual  feeling,  and  his  hands  nervously  clasped  together. 
Was  this  the  gambler's  son? — this  the  to-be-suspected 
vaurien?  For  the  moment  he  forgot  Godfrey,  forgot 
Hester  even,  absorbed  only  by  the  feeling  that  before 
him  was  his  own  son.  Yes,  the  long-dreamed-of,  often- 
dwelt-on,  fondly  imagined  and  fully  realized, — here  he 
was !  The  face  and  figure  which  at  one  time  had  been 
always  rising  before  him,  he  who  was  to  make  up  for  so 
much,  to  do  away  with  such  life-long  regrets,  in  whose 
opening  life  and  young  future  all  the  pain  of  the  past 
was  to  be  merged  and  lost, — his  son !  his  very  own  son, 
was  now  standing  before  him ! 

Recovering  himself  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  once 
more  advanced,  and  with  courtly  gravity  held  out  his 
hand,  bidding  the  new-comer  welcome  to  Seaforth.  He 
then  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and,  sitting  down  opposite 
him,  with  his  searching  eyes  still  fixed  upon  him,  he 
made  a  few  inquiries  as  to  his  journey,  his  non-arrival  at 
the  right  time,  etc.  And  Godfrey  began  to  explain. 
But  he  had  not  finished  his  sentence  before  Lord  Seaforth 
sank  back  in  his  chair  and  covered  his  face. 

The  voice,  the  manner,  the  strange  indescribable  like- 
ness of  expression,  half  natural,  half  caught  from  con- 
stant companionship,  transported  Lord  Seaforth  back  to 
9* 


102  SEAFORTH. 

the  fair  past,  and,  violently  agitated,  he  shut  out  the  pic- 
ture from  him  with  his  trembling  hand.  His  son  was 
gone  and  Hester  Stanhope  was  before  him. 

When  he  uncovered  his  face  again,  Godfrey  was  sit- 
ting gazing  quietly  at  the  fire,  and  the  likeness  had  faded 
away. 

But  he  addressed  him  no  more ;  he  felt  he  must  be 
alone  a  while ;  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  conjure  up 
again  the  voice,  the  manner  so  dearly  loved,  so  clearly 
remembered ;  and  rising  slowly,  without  looking  at  him, 
he  said,  "  Come  with  me:  I  will  introduce  you  to  Lady 
Seaforth,  and  then  take  you  to  your  room." 


CHAPTER     XX. 

LADY  SEAFORTH'S  RECEPTION. 

A  VERY  different  meeting  was  going  on  in  the  drawing- 
room,  where  the  boisterous  entry  and  greetings  of  her 
boys  were  bringing  back  the  smile  to  Lady  Seaforth's 
eyes,  and  a  glow  to  the  face  that  has  looked  pale  and 
worn  ever  since  that  trying  interview. 

The  boys  were  full  of  talk,  chattering  on  about  all  they 
had  been  doing  in  London,  and  she  saw  no  prospect  of 
introducing  the  subject  of  which  her  mind  was  full.  But 
Colin,  the  eldest,  gave  her  an  opening  by  dashing  into 
the  account  of  the  stranger  who  had  travelled  with  them, 
the  most  extraordinary  likeness  of  Lord  Seaforth,  he 
declared,  that  could  possibly  be. 

He  did  not  notice  how  pale  his  mother  turned  as  he 
spoke,  nor  what  a  pained  expression  came  into  her  eyes, 


SEA  FORTH,  103 

but  continued  to  chatter  on  on  the  subject,  and  give 
further  details,  till  Andrew  grew  provoked,  and  com- 
plained of  the  interest  and  excitement  his  brother  had 
got  up  in  "  some  cad,  who  had  travelled  with  them  second- 
class  from  London,  so  that  he  had  talked  of  nothing  else 
ever  since." 

"He  didn't  look  like  a  cad,  at  any  rate,"  exclaimed 
Colin,  hotly:  "  he  was  one  of  the  handsomest  fellows  I 

ever  saw,  and,  as  I  say,  the  exact  image  of "  But 

here  Lady  Seaforth  broke  in.  She  could  not  hear  that 
unwelcome  intelligence  again.  Far  rather  would  she  that 
her  younger  son's  report  should  be  the  true  one,  and  that 
the  expected  heir  should  prove  indeed  a  "  cad,"  as  he  so 
tersely  expressed  it. 

Her  great  hope  now,  almost  all  the  hope — poor  woman  ! 
— she  had  left,  was  that  her  husband's  nephew  should 
prove  such,  that  he  would  be  ashamed  of  him,  and  that 
her  high-bred,  good-looking  boys  should  shine  in  bright 
contrast  by  his  side. 

"I  am  sure  Andrew  is  right,"  she  said.  "Lord  Sea- 
forth is  expecting  his  nephew,  the  son  of  his  outlawed 
brother :  so  you  may  imagine  what  kind  of  youth  he  is 
likely  to  be.  I  imagine  he  has  been  brought  up  entirely 
among  blacklegs  and  cardsharpers. " 

She  spoke  hurriedly  and  nervously. 

"What's  he  want  here?"  exclaimed  Andrew,  a  dim 
suspicion  of  the  truth  coming  over  him. 

But  Colin,  more  simple-minded,  did  not  take  it  up  at 
all.  "  How  long  does  he  stay  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Lord  Seaforth  has  adopted  him,"  said  his  mother,  in 
a  hard,  dry  voice,  "  and  he  is  coming  to  live  here." 

Andrew  glanced  at  her,  and  understood  the  whole  thing 
at  once;  but  Colin  only  said,  "I  dare  say  he  isn't  a  bad 
fellow.  I  am  sure  he  doesn't  look  the  least  like  a  cad, 


104  SEA  FORTH. 

and  he's  not  obliged  to  be  good-for-nothing  because  his 
father  is." 

"  Well,  I  forbid  your  having  anything  to  do  with  him," 
said  Lady  Seaforth.  "  He  may  be  a  cardsharper  himself, 
for  anything  we  know,  and  not  at  all  fit  company  for 
you.  Moreover,  Lord  Seaforth  does  not  wish  any  com- 
munication between  you  at  present ;  and  the  boy  is  to  be 
kept  a  kind  of  state  prisoner  till  we  see  if  he  is  fit  to  be 
trusted." 

"Poor  wretch!"  said  Colin.  "Well,  I  must  say, 
mother,  I  think  that's  rather  hard.  To  take  a  fellow's 
character  away  without  giving  him  a  chance,  just  because 
his  father  was  a  rogue.  I  thought  that  in  this  free  and 
justice-loving  country  we  believed  every  man  to  be  in- 
nocent until  he  was  proved  to  be  guilty." 

"In  this  instance,"  she  answered,  sharply,  "it  will  be 
safer  to  consider  this  boy  guilty  until  he  is  proved  to  be 
innocent.  You  seem  to  be  in  a  great  hurry  to  make 
friends  with  and  stand  champion  for  him,  Colin  ;  but 
perhaps  you  won't  be  so  ready  when  you  find  that  his 
arrival  here  ousts  you  and  Andrew  from  your  positions, 
and  perhaps  blights  all  your  prospects." 

They  both  looked  so  blank  that  she  felt  sorry  she  had 
spoken  so  strongly.  She  only  wished  to  sow  the  seeds 
of  suspicion  ;  and  her  own  bitter  feelings  escaped  her, 
almost  before  she  was  aware. 

Colin  was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  He  laughed. 
"Better  be  friends  than  enemies,  then,"  he  said,  lightly. 
"  You  should  bow  to  the  rising  sun.  Next  to  the  king 
himself,  a  true  courtier  always  keeps  on  good  terms 
with  the  heir-apparent.  So  he  is  the  heir-apparent,  eh, 
mother?" 

Lady  Seaforth  could  not  answer,  but  she  made  an 
affirmatory  inclination  of  the  head. 


SEAFORTH.  105 

"It's  quite  a  romance,"  said  Colin.  "Shrouded 
stranger  in  corner  of  second-class  turning  out  to  be 
heir-apparent.  Usurpers  swaggering  in  first-class,  and 
halloo  !  was  the  carriage  sent  for  him,  mother?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  anxiously ;  "  I  believe  so.  I  ordered 
a  fly  for  you.  Didn't  you  come  in  it?" 

"  No,  hang  me  if  we  did  !"  said  Colin  ;  "and,  what's 
more,  we  ran  off  with  the  carriage.  It  was  his  lordship's 
own  brougham.  And  as  to  the  heir-apparent,  I  don't 
know  what  became  of  him.  He  must  have  followed  with 
the  luggage."  And  Colin  laughed  more  than  ever. 

"Oh,  Colin!"  said  his  mother,  now  really  alarmed; 
"how  could  you?" 

"How  were  we  to  know?"  he  exclaimed:  "we  saw 
the  brougham,  and  hopped  in.  I  thought  it  was  rather 
unusually  condescending  of  his  lordship  to  send  his  own 
brougham  for  us,  but  still " 

Lady  Seaforth's  only  answer  was  to  ring  the  bell 
sharply,  and  to  ask  the  servant  who  answered  the  sum- 
mons if  any  one  else  had  arrived  by  the  train  besides  Mr. 
Fraser  and  Mr.  Andrew. 

"Mr.  Seaforth,  my  lady,"  was  the  reply;  and  Lady 
Seaforth  started  at  the  name,  but  controlled  herself 
directly. 

"Shrouded  stranger!"  muttered  Colin  to  himself, 
laughing.  "Where  is  Mr.  Seaforth?"  he  asked,  "and 
how  did  he  get  here?" 

"  Mr.  Seaforth  hired  a  trap  and  came  on,  sir,"  said  the 
servant.  "He  arrived  ten  minutes  after  you,  and  went 
straight  to  his  lordship's  room." 

"I  never  heard  anything  drive  up  !"  exclaimed  Lady 
Seaforth. 

"  Mr.  Seaforth  came  the  back  way,  my  lady,  and 
through  the  offices  into  the  house." 

E* 


106  SEA  FORTH. 

Lady  Seaforth  and  Colin  both  got  scarlet,  she  with  fear, 
and  he  with  suppressed  laughter,  which  broke  out  the 
moment  the  servant  left  the  room. 

"Heir-apparent  smuggled  in  through  the  kitchen,"  he 
said :  "  the  best  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  hush,  Colin  !"  exclaimed  his  mother,  in  an 
agony,  for  she  heard  footsteps  coming  across  the  hall. 
"  Please,  please  be  quiet." 

Before  Colin  had  time  to  recover  himself,  the  drawing- 
room  door  opened,  and  Lord  Seaforth  entered,  followed 
by  his  nephew. 

"Helen,"  he  said,  advancing  to  his  wife,  in  a  voice 
which  slightly  trembled,  "this  is  my  nephew,  Godfrey 
Seaforth.  Godfrey,  this  is  Lady  Seaforth ;  and  these," 
he  added,  indicating  the  Frasers  with  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
"are  Lady  Seaforth' s  sons." 

Lady  Seaforth  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  the  figure  fol- 
lowing her  husband  was  quite  as  tall,  and  of  the  same 
noble  bearing.  She  knew,  somehow,  within  herself,  that 
this  youth,  in  outward  appearance  at  any  rate,  was  an 
heir  of  whom  any  man  might  be  proud.  Such  a  pang  of 
jealousy  and  vain  regret  shot  through  her  that  her  very 
heart  seemed  frozen  within  her,  and  a  demon  of  rebellion 
and  resentment  took  possession  of  her.  She  could  not, 
she  would  not,  hold  out  her  hand.  Without  looking  up, 
she  bowed  distantly  and  stiffly,  without  saying  a  word. 
Andrew  followed  suit,  and  Godfrey  silently  returned  their 
salutations  in  the  same  formal  manner. 

But  Colin  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand,  say- 
ing, cordially,  "  We  were  fellow-travellers.  I  wish  I  had 
known  who  you  were;  and  I  am  so  sorry  about  the 
carriage." 

Lady  Seaforth  glanced  at  her  husband  as  her  son  spoke, 
and  took  fright  at  the  expression  of  his  face. 


SEA  FORTH.  107 

"  There  was  a  mistake,"  she  said,  nervously  :  "  it  was 
the  servant's  fault." 

"There  was,"  he  answered,  coldly,  and  there  was  that 
in  both  tone  and  manner,  besides  the  icy  coldness  of  his 
voice,  which  made  her  turn  to  Godfrey  and  make  a  few 
inquiries  about  his  journey.  But  when  she  met  the  grave 
look  of  his  beautiful  eyes,  a  sharper  pang  shot  through 
her  heart,  and  unwillingly  she  was  obliged  to  corroborate 
Colin's  assertion  that  he  was  her  husband's  very  image; 
he  might  have  been  his  own  son. 

Admiration  and  a  wistful  longing  struggled  in  her 
breast  with  the  jealousy  and  impulsive  dislike  which  was 
springing  there, — jealousy  not  only  as  regarded  the  boy 
himself,  but  as  regarded  her  husband.  There  was  a 
peculiar  look  in  Lord  Seaforth's  eyes  which  she  had  never 
seen  before ;  a  certain  glow  of  feeling  and  interest  which 
made  him  look  so  much  handsomer  than  usual.  This 
jealousy  culminated  in  astonishment  when  Lord  Seaforth, 
with  a  scrupulous  attention  she  had  never  seen  him  dis- 
play to  a  guest  before,  led  Godfrey  away,  and  himself 
conducted  him  to  his  allotted  apartments. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE   GHOST   IN   THE   PICTURE-GALLERY. 

VERY  weary,  both  physically  and  mentally,  was  God- 
frey that  night  when  he  found  himself  alone  in  his  own 
room.  At  once  restless  and  unable  even  to  think  of  rest, 
he  was  in  a  feverish  state  of  nervous  exhaustion,  arising 
partly  from  fatigue  and  partly  from  his  over-strained 


108  SEA  FORTH. 

feeling.  The  events  of  the  day,  the  finding  himself  at 
last  in  the  presence  of  the  bete  noire  of  his  life,  and  the 
novelty  of  his  position  and  surroundings,  all  this  had  so 
excited  him  that  he  could  not  compose  his  mind  at  all. 
He  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  tried  to  think  over  the  scenes 
in  which  he  had  that  day  been  an  actor.  But  he  could 
not  think;  he  could  not  even  sit  still.  A  sense  of  op- 
pression came  over  him.  The  tapestried  walls  of  his 
room  seemed  to  hem  him  in,  and  stifle  him.  He  opened 
his  door,  and  went  out  into  the  passage  to  get  a  little  air. 
All  was  dark ;  and,  after  groping  about  a  few  minutes,  he 
returned,  or  rather  tried  to  return,  to  his  own  room.  In 
so  doing  he  lost*  his  way,  and,  all  unknowingly,  kept  ad- 
vancing farther  and  farther  from  the  room  he  wished  to 
find. 

At  last  he  came  up  against  a  door,  and  he  pushed  it 
open  and  advanced  into  a  room,  supposing  it  to  be  the 
one  he  had  lately  quitted.  He  found  himself  in  a  lofty 
picture-gallery,  which  was  flooded  with  moonlight  from 
one  end  to  the  other.  By  this  faint  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  unearthly  light,  every  picture  on  the  walls,  every 
statue  in  every  corner,  stood  out  clear,  but  pale  and 
ghost-like.  The  scene  wg,s  so  unexpected,  the  whole 
force  of  it  came  upon  him  so  suddenly,  that  for  the 
moment  he  was  startled.  A  strange,  eerie  feeling,  born 
of  much  reading  and  little  experience,  came  over  him, 
and  his  heart  beat  high. 

Just  at  this  moment,  too,  the  heavy  oak  door  behind 
him  swung  to  with  a  heavy  crash,  which  went  echoing 
through  and  through  the  empty  place,  till  it  died  away 
into  a  stillness  deeper  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  more 
unearthly  than  before.  A  fantastic  feeling  cast  its  spell 
around  him,  a  feeling  he  could  neither  understand  nor 
overcome.  It  came  over  him  suddenly  that  he  had  been 


SEAFORTIL 


!09 


through  the  whole  scene  before;  that  at  some  time  and 
somewhere  he  had  groped  his  way  along  in  darkness  till 
he  had  come  to  an  oaken  door,  and  that,  pushing  it  open, 
he  had  come  upon  the  moonlit  and  unexpected  scene  by 
which  he  was  now  surrounded.  Nay,  more;  that  on  that 
other  occasion  he  had  seen  more  and  heard  more,  that 
something  further  had  followed,  and  that  this  was  only 
the  beginning  of  a  scene,  the  first  act  of  a  drama  in 
which  he  himself  was  to  be  an  actor.  Had  he  dreamt  it? 
heard  of  it?  read  of  it? 

All  of  a  sudden  he  remembered  whence  the  feeling 
came.  He  was  thinking  of  one  of  his  boyhood's  heroes. 
What  he  had  in  his  mind  was  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard 
and  the  scene  in  the  Chapel  of  Engaddi.  Like  him, 
Kenneth  had  groped  his  way  in  the  darkness,  had  come 
to  a  closed  door,  had  pushed  it  open,  and  come  suddenly 
upon  a  dazzling  scene.  In  Kenneth's  case  the  entrance 
into  the  chapel  had  only  been  the  preliminary  to  what 
had  followed.  There  was  more  to  come  ! 

With  this  feeling  strong  upon  him,  Godfrey  advanced 
into  the  gallery,  his  own  tread  alone  breaking  the  stillness 
which  held  him  in  thrall.  Even  by  moonlight  the  beauty 
of  the  old  paintings  all  around  him  made  a  strange  im- 
pression upon  him. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  fell  upon 
his  ear.  He  withdrew  himself  behind  one  of  the  statues, 
and  waited  to  see  what  would  follow. 

A  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery  opened  very  softly, 
and  some  one,  or  something,  stole  gently  in.  It  moved 
so  lightly,  and  seemed  to  be  so  very  small,  that  he  could 
not  conceive  what  it  could  be.  So  swiftly,  too,  that  he 
could  not  distinguish  it  clearly,  and  it  disappeared  with 
rapid  and  stealthy  steps  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that 
in  which  he  stood  concealed.  What  could  it  be  ?  Every 


HO  SEA  FORTH. 

old  house,  he  had  read,  had  a  haunted  chamber.  Was 
this  one? 

He  could  hear  the  light  footsteps  passing  rapidly  down 
the  long  passage  that  divided  the  gallery  into  two  parts,  and 
at  the  far  end  the  footsteps  seemed  to  stop.  What  was  it? 
What  could  it  be?  What  could  it  be  doing?  He  was 
afraid  to  move,  lest  he  should  disturb  it,  and  reveal  his 
own  presence.  Curiosity,  however,  at  length  overcame 
every  other  feeling,  and,  leaving  his  hiding-place,  he 
crept  cautiously  along  from  statue  to  statue  till  he  had 
neared  by  many  yards  the  spot  where  the  figure  was 
stationary ;  and  then  he  paused  again,  for  he  was  getting 

near  the  window.     The  shadows  had  ceased,  and  he  must 

% 

step  out  into  the  moonlight  if  he  went  any  farther.  No 
sound  broke  the  stillness  for  a  minute,  and  he  stood  there 
hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

Suddenly  every  fibre  in  his  body  thrilled  at  the  sound 
of  his  own  name. 

"Godfrey!"  rang  in  a  passionately  appealing  cry 
through  the  gallery,  and  then  died  away  into  a  sob. 

In  his  astonishment,  Godfrey  was  about  to  cry  out,  in 
answer,  "  Who  calls  me?"  when  the  plaintive  voice  rang 
out  again, — 

"Could  I  help  it!"  it  wailed,  in  sobbing  accents. 
"Oh,  Godfrey,  Earl  of  Seaforth !  Could  I  help  it! 
could  I  help  it  !" 

It  was  a  child's  voice,  and  a  cry  of  such  unutterable 
sadness  that  it  went  straight  to  Godfrey's  heart.  But  it 
was  evident  it  was  not  addressed  to  him.  So  he  re- 
strained his  impulse  to  advance;  and,  without  moving 
from  his  hiding-place,  he  leaned  forward  and  strained  his 
eye  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  sounds  proceeded. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight,  like  a  worshipper  at  a 
shrine,  with  eyes  and  hands  upraised  to  the  picture 


SB  A  FORTH.  m 

above  her,  was  a  lovely  little  girl.  Her  fair  hair  hanging 
over  her  shoulders,  her  clasped  hands  and  kneeling 
figure,  clothed  in  white,  were  all  glorified  by  the  same 
light. 

Ere  he  had  time  to  examine  further,  her  plaintive  voice 
broke  out  again,  and  he  shrank  back  and  listened.  And 
standing  there,  dazed  and  bewildered,  he  became  the 
auditor  of  one  of  the  saddest  bursts  of  grief,  the  receiver 
of  one  of  the  most  pathetic  bursts  of  confidence,  he  had 
ever  in  his  life  either  heard  or  read  of,  and  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  a  life  sadder,  a  fate  harder,  a  sorrow 
greater  than  his  own. 

How  shall  we  paint  the  feelings  that  passed  through 
him,  as  he  stood,  motionless,  leaning  against  the  pillar? 
How  shall  we  follow  the  course  of  the  new  aspects  of  life 
and  thought  which  broke  in  upon  him  as  he  listened,  the 
rush  of  new  grief,  new  regrets,  new  longings? 

Oh !  this  pathetic  revelation  of  the  inner  life  of  a 
child,  young  in  years  but  old  in  trouble  ;  how  it  thrilled 
through  and  through  him  !  Here,  then,  was  another  victim 
of  one  man's  pride  and  injustice.  Here,  too,  was  another 
whom  he  himself,  all  unwittingly,  interfered  with  and 
stood  in  the  way  of.  Here,  too,  probably,  was  another 
who  would  hate  and  shrink  from  him. 

Go  where  he  would,  do  what  he  might,  forever  and 
forever  must  he  be  face  to  face  with  this  bitter  wrong  and 
injustice,  and  the  most  unwilling,  the  most  unhappy  cause 
of  it  all? 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  cried  the  boy  at  last,  almost  aloud ; 
and  he  moved  unconsciously  forward. 

Was  he  going  to  pray  for  the  child's  forgiveness?  Was 
he  going  to  hold  out  his  pitying  hands  and  raise  her  from 
the  attitude  of  despair  in  which  she  had  thrown  herself  at 
the  foot  of  the  picture  ?  Was  he  going  mournfully  to  tell 


H2  SEA  FORTH. 

her  the  place  she  longed  for  was  not  such  a  happy  and 
enviable  one  as  she  seemed  to  imagine  ? 

If  he  had  any  such  intentions,  he  was  too  late ;  for  she 
rose  rather  suddenly  from  her  kneeling  position,  and  re- 
tired as  softly  as  she  had  come. 

Godfrey  then  came  out  of  his  hiding-place,  and,  with 
a  look  on  his  face  which  told  of  the  storm  which  had 
raged  within  him,  he  left  the  gallery  and  groped  his  way 
back  to  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE   FIRST    DAY   AT   SEAFORTH. 

LORD  SEAFORTH  slept  very  little  that  night.  Past  and 
present  were  mingled  together  in  his  thoughts,  and  ex- 
citement kept  him  awake. 

When  he  got  a  few  fitful  snatches  of  sleep,  his  newly- 
arrived  nephew  appeared  to  him  in  his  dreams,  and  spoke 
to  him  in  the  voice  and  with  the  smile  he  had  loved  of 
old. 

All  through  his  hours  of  wakefulness  his  one  feeling 
was  longing  to  see  him  again.  He  kept  wishing  for  the 
day,  that  he  might  have  the  face  before  him. 

He  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  sense  of  restored  youth 
and  interest  in  life,  for  which  he  could  not  account.  As 
soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  sent  a  message  to  his  nephew 
to  come  and  breakfast  with  him  in  his  private  room,  and 
his  disappointment  was  great  when  he  was  told  that  Mr. 
Seaforth  had  had  a  cup  of  coffee  at  half-past  seven  and 
had  gone  out.  Strange  to  say,  there  was  no  feeling  but 


SEA1-ORTH.  II3 

disappointment  in  Lord  Seaforth's  mind,  although  the 
day  before,  the  very  idea  of  such  a  proceeding  would 
have  filled  him  with  vague  suspicions.  All  feelings  of 
suspicion  had  been  allayed,  far  more  than  he  himself  had 
any  idea  of,  by  Godfrey's  appearance.  He  did  not, 
somehow,  connect  him  with  his  vaurien  brother  at  all. 
Even  in  his  dreams  that  night  it  had  never  once  been  as 
the  gambler's  son  that  the  thought  of  the  boy  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  him. 

After  breakfast  he  went  into  the  library,  and  there 
awaited  the  return  of  his  nephew  from  his  walk  with 
feverish  impatience.  His  heart  quite  beat  when  he  heard 
a  step  outside,  and  Godfrey  entered  the  room. 

No  !  he  had  not  been  mistaken !  He  was  quite  as 
handsome,  quite  as  much  every  inch  a  Seaforth,  as  he 
had  thought  him  last  night.  Indeed,  he  was  handsomer. 
For  his  early  morning  walk  had  brought  a  color  to  his 
cheek,  and  a  glow  to  his  eye.  He  looked  very  grave, 
and  there  was  an  almost  stern  expression  in  his  whole 
face,  which  made  his  uncle  wonder  a  little.  It  had  not, 
he  thought,  been  there,  or  at  any  rate  not  to  such  a  great 
extent,  the  night  before. 

He  little  guessed  how  the  scene  in  the  picture-gallery 
had  deepened  in  the  boy's  heart  his  already  antagonistic 
feelings  towards  him. 

Godfrey  did  not  return  the  smile  of  welcome  with 
which  his  uncle  greeted  him.  He  replied  to  his  morn- 
ing salutation  as  shortly  as  possible,  and  then  stood 
without  speaking. 

Lord  Seaforth  found  it  difficult  to  begin.  All  the 
rules  and  regulations,  the  "  state-prisonership,"  as  Lady 
Seaforth  had  called  it,  which  he  had  intended  to  impose 
upon  his  nephew  appeared  to  him  in  quite  a  new  light 
now.  The  setting  them  forth  to  the  grave,  noble-looking 

10* 


114 


SEA  FORTH. 


youth  before  him  he  felt  to  be  an  insuperable  difficulty 
the  first  moment,  growing  into  a  sheer  impossibility  the 
next.  He  felt  more  as  if  he  would  have  to  ask  him  as  a 
favor  to  give  him  his  company  in  the  library  whenever 
he  felt  disposed. 

And  if  he  felt  so  powerless  now,  while  Godfrey  stood 
so  grave  and  silent,  he  knew  he  should  feel  doubly  so 
when  the  boy  began  to  speak  or  smile,  and  by  the  myste- 
rious power  of  association  bring  back  the  sweet  though 
painful  memory  of  days  gone  by. 

But  there  was  no  fear  of  Godfrey's  smiling  this  morn- 
ing. Grave  and  stern  he  looked ;  grave  and  stern  he 
felt.  The  strain  he  was  putting  upon  himself  was  quite 
painful  to  him.  He  was  awaiting  his  dismissal  with  im- 
patience. His  one  feeling  was  a  desire  to  escape  from  a 
presence  so  distasteful  to  him. 

Something  of  it  must  have  communicated  itself  to  Lord 
Seaforth  ;  for  he  coughed  rather  nervously,  and  seemed  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  to  say.  He  then  made  a  few  common- 
place observations  and  inquiries,  to  which  Godfrey  briefly 
replied. 

Lord  Seaforth  could  not  get  on;  so,  noting  the  boy's 
quick  glance  towards  the  well-filled  shelves  of  the  library, 
he  asked  him  if  he  was  fond  of  reading.  He  was  re- 
warded by  the  glow  which  shone  in  his  dark  eyes  as  he 
answered,  for  the  first  time  with  real  interest,  in  the  affirm- 
ative. Lord  Seaforth  then  gave  him  ready  permission  to 
range  over  the  books  at  will,  and  the  conversation  at  once 
came  to  an  end  ;  for  Godfrey  advanced  to  the  bookcase, 
chose  his  book,  and,  sitting  down,  became  lost  in  it,  and 
did  not  raise  his  head  or  speak  again. 

Lord  Seaforth  watched  all  this  narrowly,  noticed  with 
pleasure  the  style  of  book  he  had  chosen,  watched  with 
interest  his  absorption  in  it,  and  reflected  on  the  powei 


SEA  FORTH.  H5 

of  concentration  he  displayed.  It  argued  well,  this;  the 
boy  was  neither  frivolous  nor  idle.  His  father  had  been 
both.  It  struck  him  certainly  as  rather  extraordinary  that 
he  should  be  able  to  absorb  himself  like  this  on  the  first 
day  of  his  arrival  at  a  new  place, — and  such  a  place  !  and 
a  place  which  was  to  be  his  own  some  day, — while  all  its 
glories  were  around  him  unseen  and  unexplored.  But 
still  what  a  thing  this  power  of  attention  and  concentra- 
tion was  !  No  one,  he  reflected,  could  ever  be  very  mis- 
erable for  long  who  possessed  it.  Oh,  what  a  help  it 
would  have  been  to  him  !  This  power  of  losing  self  in 
something  else,  and  being,  for  the  time,  entirely  inde- 
pendent of  present  surroundings  and  existing  circum- 
stances,— what  it  would  have  been  to  him  !  How  many 
and  many  an  hour  of  gloomy  thought  he  might  thus  have 
been  spared !  How  many  a  dreary  day  might  thus  have 
been  cheered  and  enlivened  ! 

Where  did  the  boy  get  this  love  of  reading?  How 
had  he  contrived  to  contract  the  habit  ?  Who  could  have 
trained  him  in  this  way?  Ah!  his  mother,  of  course. 
She  was  Edward  Stanhope's  sister,  and  he  was  a  reading 
and  studying  man. 

How  curious,  he  said  to  himself,  that  he  had  never 
taken  into  account  this  element  in  his  heir's  possible  edu- 
cation !  He  must  question  him  further  on  this  head  when 
he  came  tb  know  him  better.  But  he  soon  began  to  wish 
he  would  stop  reading  and  look  up  and  speak.  He  wanted 
to  engage  his  interest  and  woo  that  lovely  smile.  He 
wanted  to  talk  over  plans  and  prospects,  to  make  friends 
with  him  a  little,  and  find  out  what  he  was  like.  He 
wanted  to  get  at  him,  and  to  make  him  express  his  opin- 
ion on  divers  and  various  subjects.  But  still  the  hand- 
some face  was  bent  over  the  book,  and  still  the  leaves 
were  turned  at  regular  intervals. 


Il6  SEAFORTH. 

"You  seem  interested  in  that  work,"  he  said,  at  last, 
when  he  felt  he  could  bear  the  silence  no  longer. 

Godfrey  started  and  looked  up,  his  delight  in  what  he 
was  reading  driving  away  for  the  moment  every  other 
thought. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  the  longed-for  smile  shining  in 
his  eyes :  "  it  is  indeed  a  wonderful  book,  and  the  lan- 
guage is  so  beautiful  too." 

Lord  Seaforth  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  he  looked 
at  him,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly. 

"  But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lord  Seaforth,"  added  God- 
frey, stiffly,  the  next  moment,  smile  and  glow  fading  away 
and  the  grave  look  returning  as  he  closed  the  book  and 
rose  from  his  seat.  "I  had  not  intended  reading  so 
long." 

"ZW/,"  said  Lord  Seaforth,  putting  out  his  hand 
imploringly,  "don't  call  me  Lord  Seaforth;  call  me 
Uncle  Harold." 

In  those  old  days  Edward  Stanhope  had  called  him 
Harold,  and  he  had  never  heard  the  name  since.  Pained 
at  the  coldness  that  had  again  crept  over  his  nephew,  he 
hastily  referred  to  the  book,  and  tried  to  make  him  talk 
of  it  again,  and  by  asking  him  to  read  the  passage  that 
had  so  struck  him  he  succeeded  in  calling  back  the  ani- 
mation to  his  face.  From  that  he  led  him  on  to  speak  of 
his  tastes  and  pursuits,  and  so  got  him  on  the  'subject  of 
his  education.  He  was  able  therefrom  to  tell  him  what 
his  wishes  were  with  respect  to  his  immediate  future,  and 
informed  him  that  he  intended  sending  him  to  a  private 
tutor  to  be  worked  up  for  his  matriculation  at  the  Uni- 
versity the  following  year,  but  that,  as  he  imagined  he 
would  be  deficient  in  many  ways,  he  had  engaged  a  classi- 
cal tutor  to  work  with  him  for  the  next  five  or  six  months 
at  home. 


SEAFORTH.  117 

Godfrey  expressed  himself  agreeable  to  all  these  arrange- 
ments, and  the  conversation  ended  by  Lord  Seaforth  pro- 
posing to  take  him  out  and  introduce  him  to  those  parts 
of  the  estate  that  were  adjacent. 

So  the  two  started  on  their  tour  of  inspection,  Lord 
Seaforth  riding,  and  Godfrey  walking  by  his  side.  They 
pursued  their  course  over  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the 
property.  Lord  Seaforth  purposely  chose  these,  as  he 
wished  to  impress  his  nephew  with  a  sense  of  his  future 
position,  and  this,  he  thought,  would  be  best  done,  or  at  any 
rate  best  begun,  by  unrolling  before  his  eyes  the  beauties 
and  glories  of  these  precious  belongings,  and  so  laying 
the  foundation  of  that  family  pride,  and  pride  in  posses- 
sion, which  was  so  strong  a  feeling  in  himself  that  he  be- 
lieved it  inherent  in  every  nature.  He  had  even  sometimes 
allowed  to  himself  that  had  his  brother  ever  been  in  the 
position  of  heir,  his  whole  character  and  career  might 
have  been  different. 

He  watched  Godfrey  narrowly  as  they  went  along,  but 
did  not  require  of  him  any  comment,  any  expression  of 
astonishment  or  admiration.  Admiration  on  such  a  theme, 
said  Lord  Seaforth  to  himself,  would  be  idle  !  futile  !  It 
was  well  he  expected  no  remark,  for  Godfrey  made  none. 

Lord  Seaforth 's  hope  was  that  he  was  too  much  im- 
pressed to  speak,  too  much  overwhelmed  by  the  thought 
of  this  princely  inheritance  to  talk  about  it. 

So  Godfrey  was  allowed  to  pursue  his  walk  in  silence ; 
though  Lord  Seaforth  himself,  after  a  time,  discoursed  at 
intervals,  explained,  dilated  on,  and  pointed  out  different 
things,  and  then  watched  to  see  the  effect. 

He  was  convinced  before  the  walk  was  over  that  his 
nephew  was  intelligent  and  observant;  also  that  there 
was  nothing  frivolous  about  him.  He  appeared  to  him 
to  be  both  thoughtful  and  earnest,  and  altogether  he  was 


Ilg  SEA  FOR  Til. 

as  favorably  impressed  by  him  on  a  further  acquaintance 
as  he  had  at  first  been  by  his  general  appearance. 

On  their  return  home  he  was  equally  pleased  to  see  him 
at  once  resume  the  book  he  had  been  reading,  and  become 
as  absorbed  in  it  as  if  he  had  never  left  it. 

For  himself,  he  was  content  to  sit  and  gaze  at  him  and 
speculate  about  him.  But  his  original  plans  with  regard 
to  Godfrey  seemed  to  him  an  insult  now ;  and  so,  to  the 
surprise  and  disgust  of  Lady  Seaforth,  he  brought  him  in 
to  dinner  that  very  night. 

After  dinner  he  would  fain  have  taken  him  back  with 
him  to  the  library  to  finish  the  evening  there ;  but 
Godfrey  was  thoroughly  worn  out  with  the  strain  of  this 
uncongenial  companionship,  which  only  his  promise  to 
his  mother  enabled  him  to  bear.  He  therefore  excused 
himself  on  the  plea  that  he  wanted  to  write  home,  and, 
wishing  his  uncle  good-night,  he  retired  to  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 
THE  GAMEKEEPER'S  DILEMMA. 

THE  first  of  September  dawned  brightly,  and  the  young 
Frasers  descended  to  their  mother's  breakfast  room  in  high 
spirits,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  shooting-jackets,  ready  to 
start  the  moment  breakfast  should  be  over.  Colin  had 
given  all  the  orders  over  night ;  the  meeting-place  for 
luncheon  had  been  fixed  upon,  and  Lady  Seaforth  was  to 
come  out  and  join  them  there  at  two  o'clock. 

"  Look  sharp,  Andrew  !"  said  the  impatient  and  eager 
Colin;  "don't  be  all  day  at  your  breakfast.  It's  nearly 


SEAFORTH.  119 

ten,  and  I  told  Cherryman  to  be  ready  to  the  minute. 
I'll  go  and  see  if  he's  anywhere  to  be  seen." 

So  saying,  Colin  went  off  whistling,  and  Andrew  went 
on  eating  and  talking  to  his  mother. 

Ten  o'clock  struck,  but  Colin  did  not  reappear. 

"I  like  Colin's  cheek,"  said  Andrew,  glancing  at  the 
clock,  which  now  said  ten  minutes  past  ten,  "  blowing  me 
up,  and  then  keeping  me  waiting." 

As  he  spoke,  Colin  came  back.  "I  never  knew 
Cherryman  unpunctual  before,"  he  said,  as  he  entered 
the  room.  "There's  no  sign  of  him  yet,  and  it's  getting 
on  for  a  quarter-past  ten." 

"Ring  the  bell,"  said  Lady  Seaforth. 

Colin  did  so,  and  Lady  Seaforth  sent  a  rather  sharp 
message  to  the  keeper  by  the  servant  who  answered  it. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  man  came  back  with  the  news  that 
the  keeper  had  gone  out  very  early,  and  had  not  returned. 

"Gone  out !"  exclaimed  both  boys  together,  swerving 
round,  in  their  astonishment,  to  look  at  the  speaker.  •* 

"Gone  out!"  repeated  Lady  Seaforth,  angrily. 
"  Where  has  he  gone?" 

"The  keeper  had  orders  to  go  out  shooting  with  Mr. 
Seaforth  this  morning,  my  lady,"  was  the  reply. 

If  a  bombshell  had  fallen  in  among  the  trio  it  could 
hardly  have  created  more  consternation  than  did  this  un- 
expected reply.  All  three,  however,  were  obliged  to 
control  themselves  before  the  servant,  who  perversely 
chose  that  moment  for  remaining  in  the  room  to  put  some 
coals  on  the  fire,  so  that  no  conversation  could  take  place. 

"Send  the  keeper  to  me  directly  he  comes  in,"  said 
Lady  Seaforth  to  the  servant,  as  he  left  the  room. 

"I  told  you  so,  Colin,"  she  added,  bitterly,  directly 
the  door  was  shut.  "  I  told  you  the  advent  of  this  boy, 
that  you  took  so  coolly,  would  oust  you  and  Andrew  from 


120  SEA  FORTH. 

your  position  here,  and  you  wouldn't  believe  me.  What 
do  you  say  now?" 

Colin  did  not  answer :  he  looked  utterly  disconsolate, 
and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  gazing  blankly 
out  of  window,  where  the  September  sun  was  shining,  and 
the  distant  woods  and  corn-fields  looked  so  fair. 

Andrew's  brow  was  dark  and  cloudy.  "  Hang  the 
fellow,"  he  muttered,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room. 

Poor  boys !  they  were  speechless  from  many  feelings, 
but  the  predominant  one  at  the  moment,  to  such  keen 
sportsmen  as  they  were,  was,  no  doubt,  bitter  disappoint- 
ment at  the  loss  of  their  day's  shooting.  This,  in  Colin's 
eyes,  far  outweighed  anything  else ;  and  Andrew  shared 
the  feeling,  though  he  also  took  his  mother's  view  of  the 
dismal  prospect  of  the  future. 

The  mother  could  not  bear  to  see  their  disappointment, 
and  controlled  her  own  bitter  feelings  to  try  and  cheer 
them  up. 

"Why  don't  you  start  by  yourselves  ?"  she  said,  "or 
with  one  of  the  under-keepers  ?" 

"  The  dogs,  mother  !"  exclaimed  Andrew,  aghast  at  her 
display  of  ignorance. 

"  Very  likely  they  have  not  taken  any,"  she  answered. 

"It  is  probably  only  a  lesson  in  shooting.  This this 

boy  can't  know  how  to  handle  a  gun.  At  any  rate,  go 
and  see." 

The  boys  rushed  off,  and  soon  returned  in  high  spirits  to 
say  they  had  found  the  under-keeper,  and  that  their  particu- 
lar dogs  had  not  been  taken.  Then  they  started  for  their 
day's  sport,  the  disagreeable  contre-temps  already  for- 
gotten. 

But  Lady  Seaforth  sat  on  where  they  had  left  her, 
brooding  bitterly  over  the  occurrence. 


SEA  FORTH.  I2i 

Hitherto  she  had  held  uncontrolled  sway  over  the 
shooting  department.  Lord  Seaforth  did  not  care  for 
shooting,  and  it  was  kept  up  for  the  amusement  of  the 
guests.  She  herself  always  arranged  all  the  shooting- 
parties,  and  Lord  Seaforth  never  interfered  in  the  slightest 
degree.  So  that  this  was  not  a  matter  of  mutual  interest : 
herein  she  was  paramount,  and  long  habit  had  made  her 
look  upon  the  keeper  as  more  her  servant  than  her  hus- 
band's. 

She  was  determined  to  make  an  effort  for  the  mastery 
still.  Several  hours  sooner  than  she  had  expected  him, 
the  keeper  appeared. 

"  How  could  you  form  another  engagement  on  the 
ist  of  September?"  she  indignantly  asked  him:  "you 
must  have  known  Mr.  Fraser  and  Mr.  Andrew  would 
require  you." 

The  man  stood  before  her  respectfully,  hat  in  hand, 
with  an  expression  of  perplexity  on  his  honest  face. 

"I'm  in  a  dilemmy,  my  lady,  and  that's  just  about 
where  it  is,"  was  his  reply. 

"A  dilemma!"  she  exclaimed.     "And  why?" 

"Just  this,"  he  answered  :  "  his  lordship's  orders  are 
one  way,  and  your  ladyship's  the  other.  The  Bible  tells 
us  no  man  can  serve  two  masters,  and  I'm  beginning  to 
see  the  Bible  says  true.  It  comes  to  this  :  Am  I  his 
lordship's  servant,  or  am  I  your  ladyship's?  That's  just 
about  where  it  is." 

"  Did  his  lordship  give  you  the  order  to  go  out  this 
morning  himself,  with  his  own  lips?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  He  did,  my  lady ;  and  when  I  said  I'd  got  my  orders 
for  this  morning  from  Mr.  Fraser,  his  lordship  ups  and  he 
says " 

"Said  what?"  exclaimed    Lady  Seaforth,  seeing   the 
man  hesitate.     "  Speak  out !" 
F  u 


122  SEA  FORTH. 

"  Well,  then,  my  lady,  I  will ;  and  your  ladyship  mustn't 
take  it  ill  of  me,  for  it  is  his  lordship's  wishes,  and  not 
my  own.  He  says,  says  his  lordship,  'I  know  nothing 
about  Mr.  Eraser's  orders,  or  anybody  else's  orders.  Un- 
derstand at  once,  and  once  for  all,  that  Mr.  Seaforth  is 
your  master  for  the  future,  and  take  your  orders  from  him, 
and  from  nobody  else.'  Them's  his  lordship's  own  words, 
my  lady;  and  you  must  see  yourself  as  how  I'm  bound 
to  obey  them." 

So  saying,  the  keeper  bowed  respectfully  and  took  his 
leave  ;  and  Lady  Seaforth,  in  a  storm  of  feeling,  went  up 
to  put  on  her  things  to  go  and  join  her  boys  at  luncheon. 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 

MUTUAL   FIRST   IMPRESSIONS. 

AFTER  this,  there  could,  of  course,  be  no  doubt  as  to 
the  relative  positions  of  Lady  Seaforth's  sons  and  Lord 
Seaforth's  nephew.  I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  what 
kind  of  feeling  Lady  Seaforth  bore  towards  Godfrey,  as 
the  first  fortnight  of  his  stay  wore  on,  and  she  every  day 
more  fully  realized  it. 

However,  she  saw  but  little  of  him.  He  was  always 
with  her  husband,  enjoying,  as  she  said  bitterly  to  her- 
self, the  companionship  she  so  longed  for  but  to  which 
she  was  never  admitted. 

And  now  turning  to  Godfrey,  let  us  see  what  impres- 
sion his  new  life  is  making  upon  him,  this  sudden  entry 
into  English  life  and  habits. 

Supposing    some    hardy   ancestor    of    ours    suddenly 


SEA  FORTH.  123 

brought  into  our  highly-civilized  nineteenth-century  life, 
with  all  its  refinement  of  luxury,  what  sort  of  effect 
would  it  have  upon  him  ? 

For  Godfrey,  fresh  from  the  simple,  almost  pastoral, 
life  he  had  lived  from  his  babyhood,  and  from  a  home 
where  poverty  and  economy  reigned  supreme,  was  very 
much  in  the  same  case  when  he  arrived  upon  the  scenes 
of  pampered  ease  and  comfort  among  which  we  all  live 
without  hardly  being  aware  of  them ;  and  he  was  daily 
and  hourly  astonished.  Used  to  the  simplest  fare,  the 
fantastic  pandering  to  appetite  by  the  number  and  variety 
of  wines  and  dishes  appeared  to  him  quite  extraordinary. 
A  great  deal  in  all  ways,  which  we — so  much  is  habit 
a  second  nature — consider  absolute  necessaries  and  all- 
important,  appeared  to  him  mere  luxuries.  The  way 
in  which  "every  corner  of  our  life  is  cushioned,"  the 
luxurious  comfort  of  the  sitting-  and  drawing-rooms,  the 
couches  and  the  deep  arm-chairs,  were  all  to  him  matters 
as  novel  as  they  were  surprising. 

Then  he  was  so  independent,  so  helpful,  so  used  to  shift 
for  himself,  that  he  could  not  understand  why  everything 
in  England  was  always  to  be  done  by  the  servants.  Even 
Lady  Seaforth  noticed  this,  and  unwillingly  owned  to 
herself  how  helpless  and  dependent  her  boys  were  in 
comparison.  Their  bells  were  always  ringing,  they  could 
not  do  the  simplest  thing  without  assistance, — must  have 
their  things  packed,  and  their  parcels  corded,  and  their 
letters  stamped  for  them.  They  could  not  even  carve  a 
chicken,  or  open  a  bottle  of  seltzer-water,  or  lace  their 
own  shooting-boots.  They  could  not  take  the  trouble 
to  put  a  bit  of  wood  on  the  fire,  or  to  carry  a  bag  from 
the  carriage  to  the  hall-door ;  all  and  everything  must 
be  done  by  the  servants. 

Another  peculiarity  which  struck  him  very  much  was 


124 


SEA  FORTH. 


the  constant  talk  and  grumble  about  the  weather,  the 
perpetual  consultation  of  the  glass,  the  fresh  lamentations 
at  each  change  in  the  atmosphere,  and  the  universal  dis- 
content and  impatience  if  there  was  a  wet  day. 

He  could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  Seaforth  with 
all  its  advantages  to  the  tiny  chalet  where,  during  the 
rainy  season,  he  and  his  were  all  cooped  up  for  weeks, 
without  any  newspapers  or  new  books  of  any  kind.  And 
here  the  tables  were  daily  covered  with  every  sort  of 
newspaper,  pamphlet,  and  new  periodical ;  and  there  was 
the  whole  vast  library  to  choose  from,  as  well  as  all  the 
lighter  literature  of  the  day.  Here,  too,  there  was  every 
sort  of  luxury  to  make  people  independent  of  out-door 
exercise  and  amusement, — a  tennis-court  and  a  racket- 
court,  a  billiard-room,  a  music-room,  and  a  picture- 
gallery,  to  say  nothing  of  the  size  of  the  house  itself, 
which  alone  afforded  scope  for  any  amount  of  exercise. 
And  yet,  with  all  this,  a  single  wet  day  set  the  Frasers 
and  everybody  else  grumbling. 

But  such  impressions  were  of  course  only  those  made 
by  the  outside  and  superficial  part  of  English  life :  its 
undercurrent  interested  him  more  and  more.  Beneath 
all  this,  was  deep,  deep  interest  and  enjoyment  in  his 
surroundings.  It  could  not  but  be  so  to  a  thoughtful 
and  cultured  mind  like  his.  Brought  so,  suddenly  into 
contact  with  art  and  civilization,  into  a  house  fraught 
with  historical  interest  and  replete  with  memories  of  the 
past,  he  stood  as  it  were  on  spots  "dignified  by  some 
association,  hallowed  by  some  great  name." 

Then  he  was  also  deeply  interested  by  the  varied  indi- 
vidual life  around  him,  and  by  the  different  kinds  of  men 
and  women  with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact. 

But  his  most  fervid  impression  was  that  meeting  with 
little  Joan.  He  had  never  seen  her  since  that  night,  but 


SEA  FORTH.  125 

his  heart  went  out  to  the  lonely  child,  and  her  forlorn 
cry  often  sounded  in  his  ear. 

He  longed  to  meet  her  again.  He  fancied  he  could 
perhaps  do  something  to  comfort  her.  At  any  rate,  he 
could  remove  from  her  mind  the  idea  that  to  be  the  boy- 
heir  she  longed  to  be  was  such  a  very  happy  position ; 
and  perhaps  a  comparison  of  their  mutual  trials  might 
bring  her  some  consolation. 

He  was  determined  to  try  and  meet  her.  Once  or 
twice  he  had  been  to  the  picture-gallery  at  that  same 
hour,  but  had  found  all  silence  and  darkness.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  a  child  at  the  end  of  the  long  family  pew 
in  church,  but  had  lost  her  in  coming  out.  One  morning 
he  distinctly  saw  a  little  figure  in  a  straw  hat,  with  long 
flowing  hair,  standing  on  the  grass-plot  by  the  fish-ponds, 
but  before  he  could  get  up  to  it,  it  was  gone.  It  was 
like  pursuing  a  phantom  or  a  shadow,  and  he  began  at 
last  to  have  an  eerie  feeling  about  the  little  creature, 
almost  believing  she  was  a  creation  of  his  own  fancy  and 
imagination. 

Lord  Seaforth  himself,  all  this  time,  was  happier  than 
he  had  ever  been  before.  He  continued  to  lead  the  life 
that  habit  had  made  second  nature  to  him,  but  now  a 
new  and  absorbing  interest  had  come  into  it.  Still  every 
hour  brought  its  allotted  task  and  its  fixed  occupation, 
but  bright,  fresh,  and  happy  thoughts  underlay  the  routine 
of  his  day. 

Those  long,  solitary  rides,  looking  into  the  concerns 
of  the  property,  were  no  more.  His  daily  progress  was 
now  made  with  his  heir  by  his  side,  and  it  was  to  him  a 
new  and  most  pleasurable  sensation  to  unfold  to  another, 
and  that  other  as  nearly  concerned  as  himself,  all  that 
had  been  done  and  all  that  was  doing  to  enhance  the 
value  of  this  idolized  possession, 
ii* 


126  SEAFORTH. 

His  leisure  hours,  too,  were  filled  with  new  and  pleas- 
ant musings.  The  pain  of  the  past  and  its  affections  were 
beginning  to  be  merged  in  the  pleasure  and  affections  of 
the  present,  with  which  they  were  all  so  curiously  linked. 
It  became  his  delight  to  sit  and  watch  Godfrey  as  he  read, 
and  to  let  all  the  dreamy  past  float  over  him  at  will. 
Every  day  convinced  him  more  and  more  of  the  worth 
and  stability  of  his  nephew's  character ;  and  what  details 
of  his  life  he  could  elicit  from  him  showed  him  what  a 
careful  training  he  had  received.  He  began  even  to  be 
ambitious  for  him,  and  to  speculate  upon  his  future. 
"  The  boy  is  a  born  student,"  he  would  often  say  to  him- 
self. Sometimes,  when  Godfrey's  interest  in  what  he 
was  reading  had  held  him  silent  for  hours,  the  longing  to 
hear  him  speak  would  make  Lord  Seaforth  desire  him  to 
read  aloud  what  was  striking  him.  And  then  the  beauty 
of  his  intonation,  and  the  additional  meaning  he  gave  to 
the  words  by  his  own  deep  interest  and  delight  in  what 
he  read,  would  quite  carry  Lord  Seaforth  away. 

The  flaw  in  his  happiness  was  the  cold  reserve  which 
his  nephew  maintained  towards  him.  He  never  talked 
more  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  never  gave  him  any 
details  of  his  home  life ;  and  if,  by  any  chance,  Lord 
Seaforth  in  any  way  approached  the  subject  of  his  father, 
Godfrey  always  turned  the  conversation  immediately. 

The  first  fortnight  of  his  stay  now  drew  to  a  close. 

The  Frasers  returned  to  Eton  without  Godfrey  coming 
across  them,  except  just  at  dinner.  Of  Lady  Seaforth 
he  saw  little,  and  knew  less.  She  never  took  any  notice 
of  him  when  he  was  in  her  presence,  nor  did  she  ever 
address  him  directly. 

A  new  experience  was  now  to  be  his.  He  was  to  be 
introduced  into  society. 


SEAFORTH. 


127 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

LADY  ALICIA  FULLERTON'S  VIEW  OF  COUNTRY-HOUSE   LIFE. 

A  SHOOTING-PARTY  was  imminent,  and  a  few  days  before 
it  assembled  arrived  on  the  scenes  a  certain  Lady  Alicia 
Fullerton,  a  single  lady  of  about  five-and-forty,  without 
whose  presence  and  assistance  no  Seaforth  party  could  be 
expected  to  go  off  well. 

She  was  a  "talking  woman,"  shrewd,  sarcastic,  and 
worldly,  not  very  good-natured,  but  clever  and  agreeable, 
and  a  great  friend  of  Lady  Seaforth's.  This  lady  took  a 
violent  fancy  to  Godfrey.  She  was  not  slow  to  perceive 
how  often  Lord  Seaforth's  eye  strayed  to  the  part  of  the 
table  where  his  nephew  was  sitting,  nor  how  immediately 
she  was  able  to  awaken  his  interest  whenever  she  made 
Godfrey  the  subject  of  her  conversation. 

Having  been  a  guest  at  Seaforth,  on  and  off,  for  many 
years,  she  was  well  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  her  host 
sitting  grave  and  silent  at  the  head  of  his  table,  taking 
but  little  interest  in  the  remarks  she  from  time  to  time 
addressed  to  him.  Her  curiosity  was  roused  concerning 
the  object  of  so  much  attention,  and  she  determined  to 
try  and  see  what  he  was  like,  and  whether  she  should  be 
able  to  get  him  to  talk,  which  she  observed  the  lady  he 
had  taken  in  to  dinner  had  quite  failed  to  do. 

So  she  had  herself  formally  introduced  to  Godfrey 
directly  the  men  came  into  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  and  she  kept  him  at  her  side  all  the  evening. 
He  was  thus,  perforce,  obliged  to  remain  on  in  the  draw- 
ing-room after  his  uncle  had  retired. 


I 

128  SEAFORTH. 

"And  so,  Mr.  Seaforth,"  began  Lady  Alicia,  "  this  is 
your  first  introduction  to  English  life?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "I  have  lived  abroad  all  my 
life,  between  Nice  and  Monaco." 

"Is  there  good  society  at  Nice  now?"  was  the  next 
question. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 

"  I  asked  if  you  had  good  society  at  Nice,"  she  re- 
peated. 

Godfrey  looked  puzzled.  "The  society  I  have  chiefly 
had  all  my  life  is  my  own,  or  my  mother's.  I  can  answer 
for  hers  being  the  best  anywhere,"  he  said,  with  a  blush 
and  a  smile. 

Lady  Alicia  looked  at  him  with  interest. 

"  This  is  your  first  introduction  to  society,  then,  as  well 
as  to  English  life." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  doubtfully,  "I  suppose  so;  but 
really  I  have  heard  that  word  '  society'  used  in  such  dif- 
ferent senses  since  I  have  been  here  that  I  have  got  quite 
puzzled  as  to  what  it  really  means.  Perhaps  you  could 
explain  it  to  me." 

"  How  shall  I  define  it  ?"  began  Lady  Alicia. 

"Johnson  says,"  interrupted  Godfrey,  but  he  stopped 
confused  at  the  smile  he  saw  on  Lady  Alicia's  face. 

"Have  you  really  looked  it  out  in  the  dictionary?" 
she  said  ;  "or  are  you  laughing  at  me  ?" 

"Yes,  really,"  answered  Godfrey,  "because  it  seems 
to  me  there  is  some  double  meaning  in  the  word  from  the 
way  they  use  it  here." 

"  Dear  !  dear  !  I  think  I  rather  envy  you,  Mr.  Seaforth. 
Fancy  having  so  much  that  is  untrodden  ground  before 
you  !  And  did  Johnson's  definition  help  you?" 

"Not  much,"  answered  Godfrey;  "at  any  rate  not  in 
all  the  meanings  it  seems  to  have.  For  instance,  when 


SEA  FORTH. 


129 


Lady  Seaforth  spoke  to-night  of  some  one  being  '  in 
society,'  and  the  next  moment  of  some  one  else  as  being 
'  not  in  society,'  what  did  she  mean  ?  And  when  you  ask 
me  if  there  is  '  good  society'  abroad,  what  do  you  mean 
exactly  ?  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you 
would  explain  it  all  to  me." 

Lady  Alicia  smiled. 

"  Freshness  and  simplicity  truly  Arcadian,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  will  try,"  she  said,  aloud;  and  she  cleared 
her  throat  to  begin.  "Society,"  she  said,  "good  so- 
ciety  "  ;  but  she  got  no  further. 

Godfrey's  earnest  eyes  fixed  so  intently  upon  her  dis- 
concerted her,  and  she  could  not  get  on  with  her  ex- 
planation. 

"These  things  are  so  difficult  to  explain,"  she  said; 
"  one  understands  them  oneself,  and  a  season  in  London 
would  teach  you  better  than  any  words  of  mine  what 
'  good  society'  is,  and  what  it  is  to  be  '  in'  or  '  not  in' 
society.  I  suppose,  to  put  it  in  plain  words,  to  be  *  in 
society'  means  to  be  in  fashionable  society.  But  I  have 
never  tried  to  put  these  things  into  words  before,  and  I 
really  find  it  very  difficult.  How  to  define  good  society 
or  fashionable  society  accurately,  I  don't  know.  Well, 
now,  for  instance,  in  good  society  you  would  be  sure  to 
meet  only  people  everybody  knows,  or  wishes  to  know. 
They  would  be  all  worth  knowing,  if  you  understand." 

"I  see,"  put  in  Godfrey;  "all  clever,  or  famous,  or 
distinguished  for  something.  It  must  be  very  pleasant." 

"  Well,  no;  not  exactly  that,"  said  Lady  Alicia,  mov- 
ing rather  restlessly  in  her  chair.  "  It's  no  use,  Mr.  Sea- 
forth, I  cannot  explain  it  to  you.  When  one  comes  to 
put  it  into  words  everything  one  says  sounds  foolish  and 
even  a  little  vulgar.  It  makes  me  feel  rather  ashamed  of 
all  our  little  distinctions  and  lines  of  demarcation.  But 
F* 


I30 


SEA  FORTH. 


still,  as  they  exist,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  explain  them  to 
you.  You'll  learn  soon  enough,"  she  added,  with  a  little 
laugh,  "  when  you  have  mixed  in  society  a  little,  and 
been  toadied  and  spoilt,  as  all  partis  are,  sooner  or  later. 
For  you  are  a  parti,  you  know,  Mr.  Seaforth." 

"A  parti"  he  repeated.     "  What  is  that  ?" 

"It  is  a  thousand  pities  you  should  ever  know,"  she 
exclaimed,  impetuously,  "and  I  really  think  I  will  not 
tell  you.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you,  if  you 
like.  I'll  give  you  a  sketch  of  what  you  may  expect  in 
the  shooting-party  which  is  going  to  assemble  here  next 
week,  and  you  shall  tell  me  after  it  has  dispersed  whether 
my  sketch  has  been  a  true  one  or  not." 

"Oh,  do!"  said  Godfrey:  "it  will  be  very  kind  of 
you." 

"We  will  suppose,"  began  Lady  Alicia,  "that  you 
have  arrived  first,  and  have  been  with  your  host  and 
hostess  a  day  or  two;  or,  in  short,  that  you  are  living  in 
the  house,  as  in  your  own  case. 

"  Well,  the  day  comes,  and  the  guests  arrive.  You 
are  all  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  awaiting  them,  and 
tea  is  ready  on  a  much  larger  table  than  usual.  Wheels 
are  heard  on  the  approach,  and  then  little  more  till  the 
butler  throws  open  the  doors  and  announces  divers  names 
in  a  string.  All  come  into  the  room  in  their  dark-looking 
dresses,  travelling  costumes  of  all  kinds, — some  smart, 
some  shabby,  in  ulsters,  over-cloaks,  waterproofs,  wraps 
of  every  description. 

"  But  one  you  pick  out  at  once  as  the  good  dresser  of 
the  party.  She  is  attired  in  a  dark -green  travelling  dress, 
fitting  like  a  glove,  and  a  hat  and  feather  to  match.  Keep 
your  eye  on  her,  and  meanwhile,  if  you  will  look  into  the 
haU,  you  will  pick  out  some  enormous  black  boxes,  with 
which  you  may  at  once  credit  her,  and  which  will  give 


SEA  FORTH.  131 

you  some  idea  of  what  you  have  to  expect.  What  do 
those  boxes  not  contain  ! 

"  She  is  the  one  who  night  by  night  and  day  by  day 
is  to  regale  your  eyes  with  one  toilette  after  another,  each 
more  ravissante  than  the  last,  till  she  culminates  on  the 
last  evening  with  something  which  is  to  leave  a  final  im- 
pression on  your  bewildered  and  admiring  mind. 

"Well,  all  these  shrouded  forms  come  into  the  room 
in  a  flutter  of  greeting,  and  a  good  deal  of  talk  and  a 
good  deal  of  tea  ensues. 

"  These  ladies  have  mostly  arrived  in  the  carriages  sent 
down  to  meet  them  at  the  station. 

"Now  the  door  is  thrown  open  again,  and  enter  the 
men  who  have  walked  up  to  stretch  their  legs  after  the 
journey.  Husbands  mostly,  young  unmarried  men  some, 
elderly  good  shots  one  or  two.  More  greetings,  and  dis- 
covery of  friends  who,  in  the  darkness  of  the  station,  had 
not  perceived  or  recognized  each  other. 

"And  now  the  divers  kinds  of  people  begin  to  exhibit 
themselves  in  more  distinct  colors.  There  is  the  warm- 
mannered  man  who  grasps  his  hostess's  hand  with  fervor, 
assures  her  how  delighted  he  is  to  find  himself  in  her 
house  at  last,  and  in  the  same  breath  asks  for  a  '  Brad- 
shaw'  to  see  how  soon  he  can  get  away.  Then  there  is 
the  man  who  begins  to  fuss  at  once  for  his  letters  and  tele- 
grams, and  gets  immersed  in  them  directly.  Under  this 
head,  too,  come  the  ladies,  who  do  the  same,  and  who 
call  their  husbands  to  their  sides  and  enter  at  once  into 
the  domestic  concerns  suggested  by  their  correspondence. 
Then  there  is  the  lady  who  admires  the  house,  and  the 
lady  who  asks  for  the  children ;  the  lady  who  is  tired 
after  her  journey  and  would  like  to  go  and  rest  before 
dinner. 

"  This  leads  to  a  general  move,  and  the  ladies  all  fol- 


I32 


SEA  FORTH. 


low  their  hostess  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  men  in 
possession.  Each  lady  is  conducted  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, told  the  dinner-hour,  the  room  in  which  they  as- 
semble before  dinner,  and  the  shortest  way  to  get  at  it. 

"By  and  by  the  host  is  heard  bringing  up  the  men. 
He  generally  takes  them  all  to  the  wrong  rooms  at  first, 
and  a  good  deal  of  tramping  up  and  down  the  passages 
and  shouting  ensues. 

"And  now  silence  falls  for  a  time  over  the  mansion, 
broken  by  the  loud  booming  of  the  dressing-gong  and 
the  ringing  of  all  the  ladies'  maids'  bells  (futile  in  many 
cases,  as  the  bell  seldom  rings  into  the  proper  maid's 
room). 

"In  about  half  an  hour  more  comes  the  soft  rustle  of 
silk  on  the  staircase,  as  the  ladies  stream  down,  dressed 
for  dinner.  And  at  each  corner  appears  a  maid  peeping 
after  them. 

"  We  will  suppose  the  ladies  now  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  all  the  men. 

"  The  lady  who  arrived  in  the  dark-green  travelling 
dress  enters  the  room  last.  She  is  always  careful  to  do 
this, — to  make  sure  her  audience  is  assembled  before  she 
appears  on  the  scene.  Her  entry  is  followed  by  a  slight 
silence,  by  the  admiring  glances  of  the  men,  the  critical 
glances  of  the  ladies,  and  by  the  quick,  dissatisfied  glance 
of  each  husband  at  his  own  wife. 

"  Dinner  is  announced  immediately,  and  all  troop  in. 

"The  conversation  at  dinner  will  vary  so  much  that  I 
can  give  you  no  idea  of  it.  It  will  depend  upon  so  many 
circumstances.  But  there  will  very  probably  be  one  lady 
very  full  of  the  last  party  she  was  at,  which,  it  is  evident, 
has  been  so  much  gayer  and  so  much  pleasanter  than  this 
is  likely  to  be  that  the  heart  of  the  hostess  sinks  within 
her,  and  she  feels  how  flat  this  must  appear  in  comparison. 


SEA  FORTH. 


133 


"And  here  I  must  confess  to  you,  Mr.  Seaforth,  that 
the  rudeness  of  good  society  is  beyond  belief.  Accus- 
tomed to  it  as  I  am,  I  still  observe  it  very  much  and  with 
great  regret.  Rudeness,  I  mean,  of  that  kind  which  springs 
from  want  of  consideration  of  the  feelings  of  others,  a 
wilful  want  of  tact,  if  I  may  so  express  it.  I  may  call  it 
bad  manners,  but  it  has  its  root  in  something  worse. 

"  Well,  the  dinner  ends,  and  the  evening  begins  by  the 
ladies  chatting  in  the  drawing-room  by  themselves,  but  as 
that  is  a  part  with  which  you  will  have  nothing  to  do,  I 
need  not  enter  upon  it. 

"When  the  men  come  in,  different  things  are  proposed, 
but,  as  a  rule,  the  first  evening  is  a  little  dull.  Every  one 
has  been  travelling,  and  is  more  or  less  tired,  and  the  dif- 
ferent elements  of  which  the  party  is  composed  have  not, 
as  yet,  assimilated  comfortably  together.  Nobody  is  par- 
ticularly inclined  for  music,  or  for  whist,  or  for  a  round 
game  ;  and  it  usually  ends  in  nothing  but  talk,  and  every 
one  is  ready  to  go  pretty  early  to  bed. 

"  Next  morning  at  breakfast  one  of  the  features  will  be 
the  inevitable  nursery  letters  that  somebody  or  other  will 
be  sure  to  receive.  First  the  child's  letter:  'Nurse's  duty, 
and  the  children  are  quite  well  and  very  happy.  Master 
Charles  is  riding  on  a  stick,  and  Miss  Molly  was  so  pleased 
to  get  dear  mamma's  letter,  and  they  both  send  their  love 
and  many  kisses  to  dear  mamma,  and  Master  Charles 
wishes  to  know  when  mamma  is  coming  home  again.' 
This  letter  of  course  ends  with  the  inevitable  row  of 
kisses, — sometimes  expressed  by  X  X  X  X  X,  and 
sometimes  by  o  o  o  o  o  o,  according  to  the  taste  of  the 
young  scribbler.  Also  the  inevitable  blot  or  smear, 
with  '  Master  Charles  made  that  blot,'  written  under- 
neath it. 

"  Then  the  baby  letter: 


I34  SEAPORT H. 

"  '  Dear  baby  is  very  well,  and  his  tooth  is  through, 
and  as  it  seems  so  bright  we  are  going  out  for  a  walk. 
Please  to  excuse  this  writing,  as  dear  baby  is  in  my  lap, 
and  has  got  hold  of  the  pen.  I  tell  him,  I  am  writing  to 
dear  mamma,  and  he  looks  as  if  he  quite  understood, — 
bless  his  little  heart !'  This  also  is  followed  by  blots 
and  scribbling,  though  of  a  less  advanced  kind. 

"After  a  long  delay,  and  a  great  deal  of  hanging 
about,  and  aimless  walking  in  and  out  of  the  drawing- 
room,  the  men  at  last  start  for  their  day's  shooting.  The 
ladies  spend  the  morning  in  working  and  talking.  Some 
write  letters,  one  or  two  go  out  for  a  walk.  A  certain 
number  go  out  in  the  middle  of  the  day  to  join  the  men 
at  luncheon. 

"  Towards  dusk  the  men,  muddy  and  tired,  return.  At 
five  o'clock  everybody  reassembles  in  the  drawing-room 
for  tea  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  there  is  a  general  disap- 
pearance. 

"  One  thing,  however,  I  must  not  omit  to  tell  you 
of,  though  you  will  not  experience  it  here.  It  is  a  very 
prominent  feature  in  most  country-houses,  and  to  my 
mind  an  unnecessary  one.  I  allude  to  the  'children's 
hour.'  Now,  I  am  not  fond  of  children  myself,  and  I 
consider  they  are  most  unduly  brought  forward  in  these 
days:  so  I  generally  gather  my  things  together  and  go  to 
my  room  when  the  hour  approaches.  But  still  I  have 
experienced  it,  or  rather  endured  it,  often  enough  to  be 
able  to  give  you  some  slight  account  of  it. 

"  It  will  be  heralded  by  the  chatter  outside  in  the 
passage,  and  the  hasty  exit  of  those  who  do  not  wish  to 
take  part  in  it,  of  whom,  as  I  tell  you,  I  am  one.  The 
door  will  then  be  thrown  open,  as  if  a  Pope  or  an  Em- 
peror were  about  to  enter,  and  the  'curled  darlings'  will 
appear.  At  first  every  sound  will  be  lost  in  the  burst  of 


SEA  FOR  Til.  135 

admiration  with  which  their  entry  will  be  greeted,  and 
they  themselves  hidden  in  the  embraces  with  which  they 
will  be  received.  But  when  the  enthusiasm  has  a  little 
subsided,  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  Land  of  Twaddle- 
dum  at  once.  There  will  soon  be  a  general  barking  and 
mewing  from  that  corner  of  the  room.  The  Noah's  Ark 
has  been  got  out ;  and  now  one  person  is  lowing  like  a 
cow,  another  bleating  like  a  sheep,  and  a  third  roaring 
like  a  lion ;  one  man  is  crawling  about  on  the  floor, 
growling,  with  a  brick  in  his  mouth. 

"  I  have  often  been  distressed  to  see  some  good-natured 
man,  or  benevolent  lady,  making  elaborate  preparations 
for  a  child's  amusement ;  for  I  know  by  experience  how 
very  brief  will  be  the  notice  bestowed  upon  them  by  the 
volatile  being  for  whom  they  are  being  made.  I  know 
how  a  child's  'Don't  do  that,'  'I  don't  like  that,'  'I 
don't  want  to  come  in  your  lap,'  has  made  some  sensitive 
woman  unused  to  children,  or  some  shy  girl,  uncomfort- 
able for  some  minutes  after  the  small  and  ruthless  creature 
has  stalked  away,  leaving  the  open  picture-book  unlocked 
at,  and  the  watch  waiting  to  be  blown  upon. 

"I  have  seen  a  man  hide  under  the  table  to  play 
*  Peep-bo'  with  a  very  young  child.  He  at  first  appears 
from  beneath  and  says,  '  Peep.'  The  child  is  delighted  ; 
and,  pleased  with  the  success  of  his  attempt,  the  man 
retires  again  under  the  table  to  make  the  finish-off  of  the 
sentence  more  effective  by  reappearing  from  beneath  in 
quite  another  direction.  But  by  the  time  he  emerges 
flushed  and  dishevelled  with  the  'bo!'  the  child  is  no 
longer  there.  It  has  got  tired  of  the  game,  and  has 
walked  off  to  another  part  of  the  room  in  search  of  a 
fresh  diversion. 

"I  have  noticed,  too,  the  anguish  endured  by  the 
young  mother  on  this  and  similar  occasions,  more 


136  SEAFORTH. 

especially  when  the  entertainment  has  been  provided 
by  some  one  she  herself  knows  is  being  most  especially 
condescending  and  acting  in  a  most  unusual  manner, 
perhaps  even  putting  a  strain  upon  himself  for  her  sake. 
And  I  have  caught  the  whispered  entreaty  to  the  remorse- 
less child,  '  Do,  darling,  go  and  look  behind  the  curtain. 
There's  poor  grandpapa  been  roaring  away  for  such  a  long 
time !' 

"The  children's  hour  comes  to  an  end  just  before  the 
sounding  of  the  dressing-gong;  and  guests  and  children 
alike  disappear. 

"The  dinner  the  second  night  will  be  very  likely  varied 
by  such  incidents  as  the  non-arrival  of  the  fish  from  Lon- 
don, a  calamity  every  one  feels  much  less  than  the  hostess 
herself;  and  the  advent  of  some  neighbors;  when  the 
agreeable  man,  and  general  favorite  of  the  party,  will 
very  probably  take  it  into  his  head  to  devote  himself  en- 
tirely to  a  shy  little  bride  of  the  locality,  to  the  great 
disgust  of  the  lady  who  arrived  in  dark  green. 

"The  evenings  I  need  not  enter  upon,  their  amuse- 
ments depend  so  entirely  on  the  fashion  of  the  house. 

"  The  morning  of  departure  comes,  and  once  more  you 
see  the  wrapped-up  forms  with  which  you  first  made 
acquaintance. 

"  The  good  dresser  subsides  again  into  the  dark-green 
travelling  dress  in  which  she  came,  and  goes  off  to  another 
country-house  to  exhibit  her  treasures  to  fresh  eyes  and 
another  admiring  audience.  There  is  a  general  flutter  of 
leave-taking  and  pretty  parting  speeches,  and  then  they 
all  drive  off. 

"  You  feel  rather  flat  after  they  are  all  gone.  The  long 
dinner  table  dwindles  down  to  a  small  round  one,  the 
joint  is  carved  on  the  table,  you  are  reduced  once  more 
to  a  trio,  and  every  one  is  well  talked  over. 


SEA  FORTH.  !37 

"You  now  gather  from  the  conversation  how  much 
more  disagreeable  and  how  far  fuller  of  faults  and  fail- 
ings every  one  was  than  you  had  any  idea  of;  how  very 
much  both  host  and  hostess  have  been  bored,  how  glad 
they  are  their  guests  are  all  gone,  how  infamously  So-and- 
so  shot,  how  very  nearly  there  was  a  row  between  So-and- 
so  and  Such-and-such,  and  how  ill-natured  this  person  was 
about  the  other. 

"You  feel  rather  ashamed  of  having  liked  somebody 
who  you  now  hear  is  the  '  greatest  bore  in  the  world,'  and 
are  nervously  conscious  of  having  been  amused  by  his 
'  tiresome  old  stories'  and  '  more  tiresome  and  older 
jokes.' 

"You  retire  to  bed  with  the  feeling  that  either  there 
are  very  few  nice  people  in  the  world,  or  else  that  very 
few  people  have  true  friends  or  really  care  very  much  for 
one  another.  And  here  I  must  stop,  Mr.  Seaforth,"  said 
Lady  Alicia,  rising  from  her  seat,  "for  I  see  Lady  Sea- 
forth is  taking  the  ladies  to  bed :  so  I  will  wish  you 
good-night." 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 
MOORE'S  MELODIES. 

LADY  SEAFORTH  had  a  good  deal  to  bear  during  the 
week  of  the  shooting-party. 

First  there  was  the  care  with  which  her  husband  made 
his  nephew's  position  in  the  house  apparent,  and  the 
pointed  way  in  which  he  introduced  him  to  each  guest. 

Then-  she  was  irritated  beyond  measure  to  see  the  atten- 
tion and  interest  Godfrey  excited  among  the  guests  them- 


138  SEAFORTH. 

selves.  They  seemed  to  take  their  cue  from  their  host, 
and  one  and  all  made  much  of  him  and  did  their  best 
to  spoil  him.  This  was  especially  the  case  with  the 
ladies. 

What  was  perhaps  more  provoking  to  her  than  anything 
was  to  see  how  well  he  stood  the  fire  of  spoiling  to  which 
he  was  exposed.  He  did  not  seem  conscious  of  it.  It 
all  fell  harmlessly  upon  him.  Very  grave,  very  silent, 
but  perfectly  gentleman-like  and  courteous,  his  bearing, 
she  could  not  but  own,  was  just  what  it  ought  to  be  ;  and 
his  quiet,  distant  manner,  while  it  provoked  his  admirers, 
only  rendered  him  more  attractive. 

Lord  Seaforth  encouraged  Godfrey  to  go  into  the 
drawing-room  in  the  evening  after  dinner  instead  of 
retiring  with  him.  This  was  a  great  self-denial :  he  was 
surprised  himself  to  find  how  much  he  missed  his  com- 
pany, and  often  longed  for  the  boy  to  follow  him,  in  spite 
of  his  own  given  permission. 

The  second  night,  Mrs.  Mildmay,  one  of  the  pretty 
young  women  of  the  party,  was  asked  to  sing.  She  rose 
and  went  to  the  piano,  followed  by  several  of  the  men. 

Godfrey,  who  was  sitting  talking  to,  or  rather  being 
talked  to,  by  Lady  Alicia  Fullerton,  rose  eagerly  and  went 
and  stood  by  the  piano. 

"Are  you  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Seaforth?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mildmay,  and  he  answered  warmly  in  the  affirmative. 

When  she  had  finished  her  song,  he,  contrary  to  his 
wont,  entered  into  conversation  with  her  of  his  own 
accord,  and  asked  her  if  she  knew  a  certain  German  song 
he  mentioned.  She  answered  that  she  knew  it  well,  but 
that  it  was  a  little  too  low  for  her,  adding,  "  Have  you 
ever  heard  Madame  Sainton  sing  it?" 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  My  mother  sings  it,  but  I  have 
never  heard  any  one  else." 


SEA  FORTH. 


139 


"  Perhaps  you  sing  it  yourself,"  she  said  ;  "or,  if  not 
that,  something  else." 

"I  sing  a  little,"  he  answered;  "but  I  have  never 
sung  to  any  one  except  my  mother  and  sisters." 

"Oh,  do  try!"  she  exclaimed:  "I  will  accompany 
you."  And,  turning  to  the  rest  of  the  company,  she 
exclaimed,  "Mr.  Seaforth  sings." 

There  was  a  general  demand  from  all  the  ladies. 
Godfrey  fell  back  from  the  piano,  and  a  deep  blush 
mounted  to  his  brow. 

"I  had  rather  not,  really,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

But  Mrs.  Mildmay  would  not  hear  of  a  refusal,  and 
appealed  to  Lady  Seaforth  to  assist  her  in  persuading  her 
"nephew"  to  sing. 

Lady  Seaforth  felt  herself  stiffening  all  over.  She 
would  rather  have  done  anything  else,  but,  determined 
not  to  betray  her  feelings,  she  turned  to  Godfrey,  and 
said,  formally,  "  Pray  give  us  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you 
sing." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  addressed  him  since  the 
evening  of  his  arrival,  and  he  instantly  obeyed. 

He  returned  to  the  piano,  and  asked  Mrs.  Mildmay 
if  she  knew  any  of  Moore's  Melodies,  "  for  I  know  no 
modern  songs,"  he  said,  apologetically;  "only  the  old 
ones  my  mother  used  to  sing  when  she  was  young." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  so  pretty  as  Moore's  Melodies," 
declared  Mrs.  Mildmay;  "and  I  know  all  the  accom- 
paniments by  heart.  Which  will  you  sing?" 

Godfrey  chose  his  song  ;  she  struck  a  few  chords,  and 
he  began  : 

"  I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 

A  barque  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  ; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining, 
The  barque  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 


140  SEAFORTH. 

"  And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  youth's  early  promise, 

Thus  fleeting  the  springtime  of  joys  we  have  known  ; 
Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us  at  eve  on  the  bleak  shore  alone." 

As  the  melting  tones  of  the  boy's  clear  voice  sounded 
on  the  ear,  a  deep  silence  fell  upon  the  company.  Every 
one  was  more  or  less  moved.  Each  note  and  each  word 
of  the  song  was  distinctly  heard  in  every  part  of  the  room. 

Lady  Seaforth,  sitting  at  some  distance  from  the  piano, 
with  her  eyes  resting  on  the  ground,  was  determined 
neither  to  listen  nor  to  be  moved.  But  presently,  all 
involuntarily,  a  choking  sensation  came  into  her  throat, 
and,  as  the  song  went  on,  sad  yearning  thoughts  filled 
her  mind.  Her  imagination,  she  knew  not  wherefore, 
•would  carry  her  to  a  room  not  far  distant,  and  her  fancy 
would  conjure  up  a  silent,  solitary  form,  sitting  brooding 
over  the  fire;  a  face  grand  and  handsome  indeed,  but 
with  a  stern,  cold  expression  stamped  upon  it,  and  a 
loveless  look  in  its  eye.  A  sob  came  before  she  could 
stop  it,  and  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

Hastily  dashing  them  away,  in  her  proud  fear  that  they 
might  have  been  observed,  she  gave  a  hasty  glance  round 
the  room  to  assure  herself  no  one  was  looking  at  her. 
As  her  eyes  swept  round  they  were  suddenly  arrested  by 
something  at  the  door.  They  travelled  no  farther. 

What  she  saw  there  caused  her  such  astonishment  that 
she  started  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  her,  and  nearly  cried 
out.  There  in  the  doorway  stood  her  husband  !  Her  hus- 
band, who  never  for  years  had  appeared  in  her  drawing- 
room — there  he  was  ! 

He  was  standing,  as  in  a  dream,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  piano,  drinking  in  every  word  of  the  song.  There 
was  a  far-away  look  in  them,  as  if  he  saw  and  heard  some- 
thing beyond ;  he  appeared  quite  unconscious  of  his  sur- 


SEA  FORTH.  141 

roundings,  a  marvellous  softness  had  come  over  his  whole 
countenance,  and  she  could  almost  fancy  she  saw  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

The  melting  tones  of  the  voice  went  on : 

"  Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  calm  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night : 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  morning, 
For  its  tears  and  its  smiles  were  worth  evening's  calm  light." 

As  the  wild  beauty  of  the  music  and  the  words  of  the 
refrain  rang  through  the  room,  an  expression  of  yearning 
passed  over  the  face  she  was  so  fixedly  watching;  she 
almost  fancied  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  blank 
distance, — to  some  far  recollection  in  the  past,  as  if 
echoing  the  passionate  cry, — 

"  Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  morning." 

Never  in  her  life  had  she  seen  his  face  look  like  this  1 
Beautiful  now  in  its  tenderness,  as  it  was  always  beautiful 
in  its  power.  She  gazed  upon  it  as  if  to  photograph  in 
her  memory  this  new  expression,  which  so  enhanced  his 
beauty ;  but  even  as  she  gazed  it  faded,  and  when  the 
song  ceased  it  was  gone  ! 

The  music  came  to  an  end,  and  the  room  rang  with 
applause.  Lady  Seaforth  shook  herself  free  from  the 
feelings  which  had  overpowered  her,  and  hastily  glancing 
round  the  room,  saw  to  her  relief  that  the  doorway  was 
empty,  and  that  no  one  but  herself  had  noticed  the  oc- 
currence. 

But  she  was  determined  there  should  be  no  more  of 
this  kind  of  thing ;  and  she  effectually  put  an  end  to 
Godfrey's  acquiescing  in  the  general  demand  that  he 
should  sing  again  by  carrying  everybody  off  to  the  bil- 
liard-room to  play  "Pool." 


142  SEAFORTH. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE   MEETING   UNDER  THE   GAINSBRO*. 

GODFREY  meanwhile,  overcome  by  associations  with  his 
home  and  his  mother  evoked  by  the  song,  slipped  away 
from  the  applause  which  followed  his  singing,  and  sought 
the  silence  of  the  picture-gallery  that  he  might  give  vent 
to  his  sad  feelings  undisturbed. 

As  he  entered,  he  became  aware  that  this  time,  all  un- 
wittingly, he  was  to  succeed  in  his  hitherto  unsuccessful 
endeavor.  This  time  he  was  not  to  be  disappointed. 
The  little  ghost  was  laid  at  last ! 

Yes,  there  she  was  !  A  small,  fairy-like  little  creature, 
with  a  queenly  little  head,  on  which  the  rippling  fair  hair 
grew  low.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  little  lamp.  Her 
dark  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  her  voice  sadder  than  on 
the  former  occasion,  as  she  began  talking  to  the  picture 
at  the  foot  of  which  she  stood.  And  a  deeper  pang 
strikes  Godfrey  as  he  hears  her  say  how  much  more  un- 
happy she  has  been  since  the  new  cousin  has  come,  and 
how  she  knows  her  mother  hates  the  sight  of  her  more 
than  ever  since  the  wicked  brother's  son  has  been  in  the 
house. 

"  Could  I  help  it  ?  Could  I  help  it  ?"  she  sobs,  as  she 
appeal*  to  the  picture.  Her  rapt  gaze  is  on  it,  she 
seems  to  look  at  it  through  and  through. 

But  there  was  something  in  her  grief  to-night  that  was 
not  soothed  so  soon  as  usual,  for  after  gazing  fixedly  for 
some  moments  she  turned  sobbing  away.  Godfrey  at  this 


SEA  FORTH. 


143 


moment  came  forward,  and  very  softly  called  her  by  her 
name. 

She  started  like  a  frightened  fawn.  "  Who  calls  me?" 
she  said,  fearfully ;  "  who  said,  '  Little  Joan'  ?" 

Godfrey  advanced  a  little  nearer,  but  as  soon  as  she 
caught  sight  of  him  she  turned  in  terror  and  tried  to  run 
away.  But  he  followed  her,  and,  detaining  her  gently, 
took  her  little  cold  hands  in  his,  and  begged  her  to  have 
no  fear.  She  trembled,  however,  so  violently  that  he  let 
them  go,  and,  stooping  down,  soothed  her  as  if  she  had 
been  one  of  his  own  little  sisters. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  little  Joan,"  he  said,  softly. 

"But  who  are  you?"  she  cried,  still  trembling,  and 
standing  before  him,  without  daring  to  look  up.  "  What 
is  your  name?" 

"I  am  your  cousin,  Godfrey  Seaforth,"  he  answered; 
"and  I  want  to  be  your  friend." 

"Oh  !"  she  cried,  in  alarm  still  greater,  and  wringing 
her  hands  as  she  spoke,  "  what  have  I  said  ?  What  have 
you  heard  ?  What  have  I  told  you  ?' ' 

"  Nothing,  dear  child,  but  what  is  as  safe  with  me  as  if 
I  were  indeed  the  inanimate  picture  to  whom  you  thought 
you  were  speaking.1' 

She  was  trembling  still,  trembling  with  astonishment 
and  mystification,  as  much  as  with  fear;  but  she  tried  no 
longer  to  run  away.  She  timidly  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face. 

But  when  she  met  the  dark  eyes  that  were  looking 
down  so  sorrowfully  and  pityingly  upon  her,  the  sense 
of  familiarity  with  their  expression  came  over  her  with 
such  force  that  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  but  I  have  seen 
you  before  !  You  are  not  a  stranger  to  me  !"  Her  eyes 
strayed  on  to  the  picture  above  him,  and  came  back 
again  to  his  face.  "  Why,  you  are  the  picture  come  to 


I44  SEAFORTH. 

life!"  she  exclaimed.  "Look!  look!"  she  pointed  to 
it  excitedly. 

Godfrey  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw  the  likeness  himself. 

"Godfrey  !"  cried  the  child,  turning  to  the  picture, 
"  do  you  see  him  ?  do  you  see  him  ?" 

The  picture  gazed  down  as  usual,  but  the  eyes  had  lost 
their  power.  She  turned  quickly  back  to  the  living  eyes, 
and  to  the  expression  shining  there,  to  the  sorrow  and 
the  pity  pervading  every  line  of  the  living  face,  and  her 
starved  heart  went  out  to  the  living,  breathing  Godfrey  at 
her  side. 

"Godfrey  /"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him  in 
mute  and  pitiful  entreaty  for  something,  she  knew  not 
what,  but  it  was  something  which  the  picture  could  not 
give  her. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !"  was  his  answer. 

"Say  it  again  !"  cried  the  child  ;  "  call  me  '  poor  little 
thing'  again." 

"Poor  little  thing,"  repeated  Godfrey,  tenderly,  "I 
am  so  sorry  for  you." 

"No  one  was  ever  sorry  for  me  before,"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears,  and  clinging  to  him;  "no  one  ever 
called  me  poor  little  thing  before." 

Godfrey's  overcharged  heart  almost  overcame  him. 
His  very  soul  was  stirred  within  him  by  pity  and  sorrow, 
and,  bending  over  the  child,  he  poured  forth  such  a  flood 
of  feeling,  rendered  intenser  by  long  suppression,  that 

Her  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  her  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

She  listened  spell-bound,  to  his  passionate  protest  against 
the  tyranny  which  held  them  both  in  thrall,  against  the 
injustice  which  had  marred  her  life  and  his.  He  vowed 
himself  from  that  moment  to  do  all  that  in  him  lay  to 


SEA  FORTH.  !45 

make  up  for  the  sorrow  of  which  he  was  the  unwilling 
cause,  and  for  the  added  suffering  his  presence  in  the 
house  had  heaped  upon  her. 

And,  as  if  to  soothe  her  sufferings  by  painting  and  un- 
folding his  own,  he  told  more  of  his  own  life  and  feelings 
than  he  had  ever  told  to  earthly  ear  before.  He  laid 
bare  all  his  own  long-concealed  griefs,  to  atone,  if  by 
ever  so  little,  for  the  burden  he  had  been  the  means  of 
laying  upon  her.  All  unheeding  on  what  childish  ears 
it  was  falling,  he  poured  out  his  life-story  to  the  wonder- 
ing child. 

But  she  understood  him.  The  sad  language  of  sorrow, 
of  longing,  and  of  vain  regret  was  to  her,  alas  !  a  famil- 
iar language,  and  every  word  that  he  uttered  found  a 
responsive  chord  in  her  heart.  Instinctively,  her  eyes 
sought  the  picture,  as  if  asking  its  sympathy  in  this  new 
experience  of  her  life.  But  again  she  seemed  to  read  no 
response  in  its  eyes.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  it 
struck  her  that  their  expression  was  cold  and  lifeless  ! 
It  was  but  painted  canvas  after  all ! 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  new  conviction,  she  felt  no  chill 
of  disappointment.  She  only  turned  to  Godfrey,  and 
hid  her  face  in  his  hands. 

Ah,  little  Joan,  your  idol  is  demolished,  its  altars  are 
thrown  down.  Never  will  you  offer  it  your  heart-whole 
worship,  or  kneel  at  its  shrine,  again  ! 

"  Has  it  been  so  very  sad  and  lonely  for  you  all  this 
time?"  he  said,  tenderly,  as  he  bent  down  over  her. 

"So  lonely  !"  she  answered.  "  No  one  cares  for  me! 
No  one  loves  me  !  No  one  wants  me  !" 

"But  it  will  never  be  so  any  more,"  he  whispered, 
gently.  "All  that  is  past  and  over.  You  shall  be  my 
little  sister,  and  I  will  love  you  and  care  for  you  as  I  do 
for  my  own." 

G  13 


146  SEA  FORTH. 

Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  picture,  with  her  hand  in 
his,  and  her  eyes  raised  in  wonder  and  gratitude  to  his 
face,  she  realizes  that  what  he  says  is  true.  Lonely 
and  uncared-for  no  longer !  Neglected  and  un-wanted 
nevermore  ! 

"  Godfrey,  Earl  of  Seaforth,"  looks  down  upon  them 
as  they  stand,  their  hands  clasped  together,  their  eyes 
meeting  in  full  and  mutual  understanding. 

"He  was  my  elder  brother  all  these  years,"  she  whis- 
JDCTS,  "  but  you  will  be  my  elder  brother  now  !" 

Yes,  the  power  of  the  picture  is  gone  forever,  the  idol 
of  her  childhood  brought  low;  for  the  light  of  living 
sympathy  has  dawned  upon  its  darkness,  and  a  new  era 
has  begun  in  the  life  of  little  Joan. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII. 

LADY   ALICIA   FULLERTON   REPROVED. 

"WELL,  Mr.  Seaforth,"  said  Lady  Alicia,  the  evening 
of  the  day  on  which  the  party  had  dispersed,  "  was  my 
sketch  well  drawn?" 

"Indeed  it  was,"  answered  Godfrey.  "Many  things 
happened  almost  exactly  as  you  predicted.  The  break- 
ing-up,  though,  has  not  been  so  literally  fulfilled  as  the 
rest,  for  we  did  not  at  dinner  to-night  talk  everybody 
over  and  find  fault  with  them  all  as  you  said  we  should." 

"This  is  not  Tittle-tattle  Hall,"  she  answered  :  "  your 
uncle's  presence  alone  is  enough  to  put  an  end  to  any- 
thing of  that  sort.  But  if  you  had  been  at  tea  this  after- 
noon you  would  have  heard  Lady  Seaforth  and  me  going 


SEA  FORTH.  !4y 

at  it  tooth  and  nail.  I  am  glad  you  were  not.  But  I 
should  like  to  hear  your  Arcadian  views  of  society  after 
your  introduction  to  it." 

"  Oh,  it  interested  me  very  much,"  said  Godfrey. 
"  It  was  like  reading  a  new  book  every  hour." 

"  But  I  think,"  he  added,  at  first  hesitatingly  and  then 
more  boldly,  "  I  think  there  was  a  great  deal  more  in  it, 
and  everybody  was  much  more  pleasant  and  amiable,  than 
I  expected  from  your  account.  After  what  you  prepared 
me  for,  I  quite  thought  I  should  dislike  it  all  very  much. 
The  impression  your  sketch  left  upon  my  mind  was  that 
country-house  society,  and  the  world  in  general,  was 
composed  of  very  ill-natured  and  disagreeable  people,  full 
of  faults  and  failings,  with  few  redeeming  points,  some 
vain,  some  selfish,  and  all  more  or  less  insincere  and 
uninteresting.  Now,  I  found  it  quite  the  contrary." 

"  You  cannot  deny,"  said  Lady  Alicia,  "  that  we  had 
some  of  the  people  I  described  to  you.  That  vain  little 
Lady  St.  Aubyn,  for  instance,  wasn't  she  exactly  the  dark- 
green  lady  I  told  you  of?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Godfrey,  "there  were,  of  course, 
some  of  the  people  and  characters  you  prepared  me  for. 
But  there  were  many  others  much  pleasanter  and  more 
interesting." 

"  I  described  the  world  as  it  appears  to  me,"  she  an- 
swered, lightly.  "  I  have  a  very  poor  opinion  of  human 
nature.  I  content  myself  with  a  superficial  view.  Life 
is  not  long  enough  to  dig  deeper.  But  come  !  tell  me 
what  you  saw  in  it.  I  should  like  to  hear.  You  are  so 
fresh  to  it  all  that  I  dare  say  you  saw  a  good  deal  that  was 
hidden  to  my  blase  vision." 

Godfrey  at  first  seemed  disinclined  to  comply  with  her 
request ;  but,  on  her  renewed  entreaty,  he  gave  some 
account  of  the  impressions  he  had  received  from  the 


1 48  SEA  FORTH. 

divers  scenes  and  characters  which  had  lately  passed 
before  him.  He  had  noticed  a  hundred  little  traits  of 
character  and  pathetic  incidents  which  had  been  hidden 
to  Lady  Alicia ;  and  his  deeper  insight  into  the  feelings 
of  others,  and  the  moving  springs  of  their  words  and 
actions,  made  her  feel  that  she  was  both  superficial  and 
unsympathetic,  if  not  positively  unfeeling. 

The  shy  little  bride  of  the  neighborhood  had  confided 
to  him  what  her  feelings  had  been  when  the  "good 
dresser"  had  come  into  the  room  and  her  husband's  look 
of  dissatisfaction  had  been  cast  at  her, — the  first  look  of 
disapproval  she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  since  their  lives  had 
been  linked  together.  The  young  mother  had  told  him 
of  the  joy  that  nursery  letter  at  breakfast  had  been  to 
her, — how  she  had  not  slept  all  night  for  thinking  of  her 
baby  boy,  from  whom  she  had  never  before  been  separated. 

And  as  he  talked  she  felt  rather  ashamed.  Words  she 
had  sotnewhere  read  flashed  across  her  :  "But,  insipid  as 
Life  is  to  one  who  comes  close  up  to  it  and  meddles  with 
its  trivial  passages,  there  is  in  all,  even  in  its  humblest 
forms,  an  undersong  of  poetry  which  makes  itself  heard 
to  those  who  listen  for  it.  ...  The  deep  undertone 
of  this  world  is  sadness,  a  solemn  bass  occurring  at 
measured  intervals  and  heard  through  all  other  tones. 
Ultimately,  all  the  strains  of  this  world's  music  resolve 
themselves  into  that  tone.  ..." 

"Ah,  well,"  she  said,  at  last,  "it  is  a  great  thing  to 
be  so  fresh  and  full  of  feeling.  I  don't  think  I  have  a 
heart  at  all.  I  don't  envy  you,  though,  for  if  you  take 
every  one's  troubles  on  your  own  shoulders  like  that  you 
will  soon  be  weighed  down,  and  be  twice  as  old  as  me  in 
ten  years'  time.  And  yet,"  she  added,  rather  wistfully, 
and  half  to  herself,  "  and  yet " 

But  the  sentence  was  never  finished,  for  Lady  Seaforth, 


SEA  FORTH. 


149 


irritated  by  the  attention  her  friend  was  paying  to  God- 
frey, called  her  away  on  some  trifling  pretext,  and  he  did 
not  come  across  her  again  all  the  evening. 

That  was  their  last  conversation,  as  Lady  Alicia  went 
away  a  few  days  after. 

Godfrey's  tutor  arrived  the  following  week,  which  was 
the  signal  for  his  commencing  a  life  of  study,  in  which 
he  soon  became  completely  absorbed.  So  that,  except 
just  at  dinner,  he  saw  nothing  more  of  society.  This 
tutor  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  Godfrey's  abilities, 
which,  coupled  with  his  power  of  concentration  and 
wonderful  industry,  made  him  predict  a  great  future  for 
him. 

Lord  Seaforth  would  talk  to  this  man  by  the  hour,  and 
listen  for  any  length  of  time  to  the  history  of  Godfrey's 
attainments  and  to  these  gratifying  prophecies.  His 
affection  for  his  nephew  was  increasing  in  intensity  every 
day.  The  very  sound  of  his  footstep  would  make  his  eye 
glisten,  and  a  glow  come  into  his  face  ;  and  he  would 
turn  eagerly  round  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  him  as 
he  came  into  the  room.  He  would  fain  have  had  him 
there  always  during  his  leisure  hours,  but  he  would  not 
force  it.  He  wanted  him  to  come  of  his  own  free  will, 
and  left  him  to  choose,  in  order  to  see  how  much  time 
Godfrey  would,  of  his  own  accord,  spend  with  him  in 
the  library. 

He  craved  so  for  the  boy's  love,  and  he  could  not  but 
own  to  himself  that  he  was  making  no  progress  in  gaining 
his  affection.  Do  what  he  would,  there  was  no  change 
in  Godfrey's  demeanor  to  him.  Cold  and  distant  he  had 
been  from  the  very  first ;  cold  and  distant  he  remained. 

13* 


150  SEAFORTH. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

GODFREY   AND   LITTLE  JOAN. 

GODFREY  himself,  meanwhile,  had  an  outlet  both  for 
his  interest  and  for  his  affections,  and  while  Lord  Seaforth 
was  chafing  at  his  absence,  and  wondering  where  he  spent 
so  much  of  his  leisure  time,  he  was  sitting  in  the  picture- 
gallery  with  little  Joan.  Quaint,  fantastic  conversations 
they  held  at  the  foot  of  the  picture, — curious  comparisons 
of  each  other's  lives  and  circumstances.  At  any  rate, 
with  hands  clasped  together,  they  agreed  that  they  bore 
each  other  no  grudge ;  enemies  they  ought  to  be,  dear 
friends  they  were. 

"Could  we  help  it?"  laughing  Joan  would  say,  and 
the  change  in  the  little  pronoun  took  away  all  the  sting 
of  the  cry.  „ 

Happy  little  Joan  we  may  call  her  now,  for  passionate 
resentment  has  fled  away,  rebellion  is  felt  no  longer.  A 
deep  well  of  love  and  gratitude  has  risen  in  her  heart, 
and  she  is  rejoicing  in  the  power  of  a  new  affection  and 
the  dawn  of  a  brighter  life.  He  has  averted  the  coldness 
that  was  creeping  over  her,  and  his  love  has  smoothed  all 
the  hard  lines  of  her  life  away. 

"Oh,  Godfrey,"  she  would  say  sometimes,  "I  should 
have  been  so  wicked  if  it  had  not  been  for  you  !" 

"And  I,"  he  would  answer,  "should  be  so  lonely  but 
for  you  !" 

Little  Joan's  heart  responded  so  quickly  to  any  longing 
after  affection.  She  would  have  done  anything  in  the 
world  to  save  him  from  a  moment's  pain.  It  was  such  a 


SEA  FORTH.  15! 

new  feeling  to  her  to  find  herself  necessary  to  some  one, 
and  a  part  of  anybody's  happiness. 

It  was  not  always  in  the  picture-gallery  that  they  met. 
They  had  trysting-places  out  of  doors,  or  he  would  come 
upon  her  suddenly  sometimes  as  he  walked  about  with 
his  book. 

Finding  her  one  day  on  the  grass-plot  by  the  fish- 
ponds, with  some  daisies  in  her  hand,  happy  memories 
of  his  own  little  sisters  came  over  him,  and,  sitting  down 
by  her  side,  he  told  her  stories  of  their  merry  games,  and 
turned  daisies  in  her  hat,  while  he  talked  of  Hester,  and 
Olive,  and  Venetia.  And  as  he  told  her  of  them  his  brow 
grew  sad,  and  he  sighed  as  he  wondered  when  he  should 
see  them  all  again. 

Little  Joan,  who  watched  every  change  in  his  face,  who 
was  learning  to  read  his  every  expression,  looked  wistfully 
at  him,  and  put  her  little  hand  in  his. 

Seeing  her  face  overshadowed  by  the  shadow  passing 
over  his,  he  smiled,  and,  to  divert  her  thoughts,  began 
telling  her  of  that  sunny  morning  when  he  had  found 
little  Venetia  so  puzzled  with  the  perversity  of  her  daisies, 
who  would  not  give  her  the  answer  she  desired.  And  he 
made  Joan  laugh,  as  he  repeated  his  little  sister's  plaintive 
words:  "  I  think  the  daisies  must  have  made  a  mistake, 
Godfrey,  for  I  know  I  do  love  you,  and  three  times  they 
have  told  me  that  I  don't.  Do  daisies  make  mistakes,  I 
wonder?" 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  smiling  down  upon 
the  child:  "do  you  think  daisies  make  mistakes,  little 
Joan?" 

"  The  Seaforth  daisies  never  do,"  she  answered,  softly, 
"  for  whenever  I  ask  them,  'Does  Joan  love  Godfrey  ?' 
they  always  give  me  the  right  answer." 


152 


SEA  FORTH. 


"What  do  they  say?"  asked  Godfrey,  "Je  t'aime  un 
peu?" 

"  No,"  said  the  child  :  "  they  would  not  be  true  daisies 
if  they  did." 

"What  do  they  say?"  again  questioned  Godfrey. 

"  Passionnement,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 
"And  that's  true,"  she  added,  looking  up  at  him  with 
all  her  gratitude  and  adoring  affection  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"As  much  as  that,  little  Joan?"  he  said,  rather  sadly, 
"  I  don't  think  I  deserve  as  much  as  that  !" 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  ask  them,  '  How  much  does  God- 
frey love  me?'  "  she  said,  picking  a  daisy  and  beginning 
to  pull  off  the  petals. 

"  M'aimes-tu?  —  Un  peu?  —  Beaucoup?  —  Passionne'- 
ment? — Point  du  tout?" 

It  came  to  "un  peu." 

"Try  again,"  said  Godfrey. 

"You  do  it,"  she  said,  handing  him  another.  He 
took  it,  and  she  watched  him  eagerly  as  he  pulled  off  the 
first  one,  saying,  as  he  did  so, — 

"  Godfrey  Seaforth,  tell  me  true, 
Do  you  love  Joan ?     Does  she  love  you?" 

It  came  again  to  "un  peu." 

Joan  looked  disappointed,  and  threw  the  daisy  away. 

"A  daisy's  mistake,  little  Joan,"  he  said,  soothingly, 
noticing  the  shadow  that  passed  over  her  face.  "The 
Seaforth  daisies  are  no  more  to  be  trusted,  you  see,  than 
those  that  grow  in  the  orange-grove  at  home."  He  said 
the  last  words  softly,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  blue 
sky  above.  An  overpowering  recollection  of  his  home 
and  his  little  sisters  had  again  come  over  him,  and  his 
thoughts  had  flown  to  the  sunny  vineyards  and  olive-yards 
and  the  beloved  ones  far  away. 


SEA  FORTH.  153 

"Are  you  longing  to  be  there?"  Joan  said,  wistfully. 

The  tone  of  her  voice  roused  him  from  his  dreams  and 
recalled  him  to  himself.  He  looked  at  her,  and,  reading 
the  plaintive  feeling  expressed  in  her  mournful  eyes, 
overcome  by  the  recollection  of  her  forlorn  position,  he 
had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her  the  thoughts  of  which  his 
mind  was  full. 

And  the  innate  chivalry  of  his  nature  did  really,  for 
the  moment,  prevent  his  wishing  to  leave  her  to  the  lone- 
liness of  her  life. 

"  If  I  could  take  you  with  me,  little  Joan,  I  do  not 
care  how  soon  I  go." 

"But  as  you  can't?"  she  said,  leaning  forward,  and 
looking  as  if  she  would  read  his  very  thoughts. 

"As  I  can't,"  he  said,  quietly,  "we  will  both  stay 
here." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  there  was  silence  on  the 
grass-plot  for  some  time. 

"I  couldn't  live  without  you,  Godfrey,"  she  cried, 
suddenly.  "  I  think  I  should  die." 

"  Don't/'  he  said,  hastily,  "  don't  talk  like  that,  little 
Joan." 

There  were  times  when  he  could  not  bear  it.  The  sense 
of  his  own  share  in  her  misfortunes  at  such  moments  over- 
powered him. 

Their  conversations  were  not  always  as  sad  as  this. 
Sometimes  he  would  paint  bright  pictures  of  happy  days 
to  come,  when  she  should  learn  to  know  and  love  her 
"Aunt  Hester,"  as  he  taught  her  to  call  her,  and  should 
have  bright  companions  in  her  merry  little  cousins.  How, 
or  when,  or  where,  he  had  no  notion ;  but  he  liked  to 
carry  little  Joan's  thoughts  away  into  visions  of  hope  and 
dreams  of  future  joy. 


154  SEA  FORTH. 

At  other  times  he  would  talk  of  his  own  future,  and  of 
all  he  wished  and  hoped  to  be,  all  he  felt  capable  of  be- 
coming, all  he  meant  some  day  to  accomplish. 

He  was  getting  immersed  in  the  pleasures  of  study,  and 
the  faint  movements  of  personal  ambition  were  beginning 
to  stir  within  him. 

All  this,  and  more,  was  poured  into  the  ear  of  little 
Joan  day  after  day,  as  the  autumn  glided  away.  They 
would  sit  for  hours  talking,  he  charmed  out  of  his  reserve 
by  her  sympathy,  she  drinking  in  his  words  with  eyes 
sparkling  with  pride  and  joy. 

Happy,  happy  hours  !  Golden  days  of  light  and  love; 
subjects  for  future  harvests  of  happy  memories,  which 
both  will  treasure  in  the  time  to  come  !  But  at  present 
there  is  a  difference.  The  boy,  intent  on  pity  and  kind- 
ness, has  no  other  thought  as  yet ;  but  the  girl,  whose 
long-pent-up  stores  of  affection  have  found  a  vent  at  last, 
has  already  got  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire  in  her  breast. 
Growing  with  her  growth,  and  strengthening  with  her 
strength,  daily  and  hourly  it  is  becoming  a  part  of  her 
very  being. 

She  is  only  a  child  as  yet,  loving  with  the  tender  trust 
and  boundless  confidence  which  belongs  to  a  child's 
affection.  But  her  nature  is  deep,  and  passionate,  and 
unchanging.  By  and  by,  with  her  dawning  womanhood, 
the  love  and  trust  of  childhood  will  be  merged  in  a  deeper 
feeling.  Joined  together,  they  will  fan  that  spark  into  a 
flame  which  neither  time,  nor  slander,  nor  separation  shall 
lessen,  nor  death  itself  be  able  to  extinguish. 


SEA  FORTH.  155 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

LADY  SEAFORTH'S  PROCEEDINGS. 

ALL  this  time  Lady  Seaforth's  hatred  of  Godfrey  had 
been  deepening  day  by  day.  She  had  watched  her  hus- 
band closely  ever  since  that  night  of  the  song,  and,  to 
her  mind,  he  was  a  changed  man.  She  saw  how  ab- 
sorbed he  was  in  his  nephew,  how  his  eyes  were  always 
straying  to  Godfrey's  face,  how  eagerly  he  listened  to 
every  word  that  fell  from  the  boy's  lips,  and  how  his  at- 
tention wandered  at  once  from  what  any  one  else  was 
saying  directly  that  quiet,  earnest  voice  made  itself  heard. 

How  she  hated  that  voice  !  She  observed,  too,  the 
pride  Lord  Seaforth  took  in  him,  the  look  of  gratification 
and  delight  that  came  into  his  face  whenever  what  God- 
frey was  saying  attracted  attention,  and  the  quick  glance 
he  shot  round  the  table  to  enjoy  the  effect  produced. 
There  was  no  mistaking,  and  he  seemed  to  her  to  take 
no  pains  to  disguise  his  interest  and  affection.  She  be- 
came conscious  that  the  deep  feelings,  whose  existence 
she  had  always  suspected,  were  roused  at  last.  This  boy, 
then,  possessed  the  power  for  which  she  had  always  in 
vain  striven.  He  held  the  reins  she  had  never  for  a 
moment  contrived  to  grasp. 

She  felt  now  as  if  she  would  rather  think  her  husband 
had  no  feelings,  than  know  that  it  was  she  who  had  not 
the  power  of  drawing  them  out ;  than  see  another  suc- 
ceed so  fully  where  she  had  so  completely  failed. 

She  began  to  long  to  lower  Godfrey  in  her  husband's 
eyes.  She  would  have  given  anything  to  catch  him  trip- 


156  SEA  FORTH. 

ping,  or  to  see  him  act  in  such  a  manner  that  his  uncle 
might  be  disenchanted.  It  was  something  of  the  same  feel- 
ing that  Godfrey's  father  had  had  towards  him,  and,  like 
him,  she  never  could  succeed  in  dragging  Godfrey  down. 
She  never  could  catch  hold  of  anything  he  did  or  said 
out  of  which  she  could  make  any  capital,  or  turn  to  ac- 
count against  him.  Her  hatred  of  him  was  growing  so 
strong  that  she  was  constantly  laying  traps  for  him,  but  it 
was  of  no  use.  He  never  fell  into  them. 

Moreover,  she  had  now  discovered  that  he  was  the  son 
of  her  husband's  early  love ;  and  with  that  knowledge  her 
feelings  towards  him  had  become  more  bitter  than  ever. 
With  the  quickness  of  a  jealous  woman,  she  had,  from 
the  moment  she  had  watched  his  face  during  Godfrey's 
singing,  felt  sure  there  was  some  memory  in  the  past,  and 
that  Godfrey  was  somehow  or  other  connected  with  it. 
She  determined  to  find  it  out. 

She  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  gaining  her  husband's 
affections,  and  so  she  had  no  longer  that  feeling  she  had 
formerly  had  towards  him,  which  had  prevented  her  ever 
doing  anything  she  thought  he  would  not  like,  or  trying 
to  make  discoveries  on  subjects  he  chose  to  conceal  from 
her.  "Why  should  she  care  to  please  him?"  she  asked 
herself,  bitterly.  "What  did  she  get  by  it?  Nothing. 
She  had  borne  a  great  deal  from  him.  What  good  did 
she  get  by  her  endurance?  None  !" 

So  she  gave  free  vent  to  her  curiosity,  and  set  to  work 
to  discover  anything  she  could  which  would  throw  any 
light  on  his  early  life.  It  was  not  very  difficult.  A  few 
words  with  one  of  the  old  women  in  the  village,  and  all 
was  clear  to  her.  She  would  probably  have  heard  the 
story  long  before,  but  she  was  considered  a  "  very  haughty 
lady"  by  the  people  about,  and  they  were  afraid  of  her, 
and  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence.  Moreover,  she  seldom 


SEAFORTH. 


157 


went  into  their  cottages.  On  this  occasion,  having  come 
with  a  fixed  purpose,  she  condescended  to  assume  a  more 
easy  and  talkative  manner  than  usual,  and  the  tongue  of 
the  garrulous  old  lady  she  was  visiting  was  unlocked  at 
once. 

But  with  the  return  of  her  boys  for  the  Christmas  holi- 
days other  thoughts  began  to  fill  her  mind.  Their  opening 
lives,  and  the  fulfilment  of  her  plans  for  them,  brought 
now  so  near  by  Colin's  Eton  life  being  over,  occupied 
her  mind,  and  Godfrey  came  before  her  more  in  the  light 
of  a  possible  stumbling-block  in  their  paths  than  in  the 
painful  one  of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  She  made 
up  her  mind,  however,  that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  in 
their  way.  Neither  the  seat  for  the  county  nor  the 
family  living  would  be  required  for  him.  She  felt  quite 
sure  that  Lord  Seaforth  was  not  going  to  put  his  nephew 
into  Parliament.  None  of  the  Seaforths  had  ever  been 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  They  were  a  race  of  land- 
lords and  agriculturists,  not  politicians,  and  from  what 
she  saw  of  the  training  her  husband  was  giving  his  nephew 
she  felt  sure  he  intended  him  to  follow  in  their  lead.  Did 
she  not  day  after  day  meet  them  inspecting  and  overlook- 
ing every  part  of  the  estate  ?  and  she  felt  sure  that  deep 
drainage  and  the  rotation  of  crops  formed  the  staple 
interest  of  their  conversation. 

No.  She  had  no  fear  about  that.  She  felt,  however, 
that  it  would  be  well  to  mention  her  plans  to  her  husband 
soon,  and  also  to  sound  her  boys,  so  as  to  be  quite  sure 
of  their  minds  being  made  up  before  she  made  her  re- 
quests on  their  behalf. 


I58  SEA  FORTH. 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE   DEEP   SEAT   IN   THE    WEST   WINDOW. 

A  FEW  days  after  Colin  and  Andrew  arrived,  therefore, 
she  told  them  at  breakfast  that  she  wished  to  have  a  seri- 
ous conversation  with  them  both  on  the  subject  of  their 
future,  and  desired  them  to  come  in  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  to  meet  her  in  the  west  drawing-room,  where  she 
would  be  waiting  for  them. 

Four  o'clock  found  her  sitting  there  by  the  fire,  re- 
hearsing in  her  own  mind,  as  she  gazed  thoughtfully  at 
the  blazing  logs,  all  that  she  was  going  to  say  to  her  sons 
in  the  coming  interview. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  that  afternoon  Godfrey  had 
been  to  the  picture-gallery  to  speak  to  little  Joan,  but  had 
not  found  her  there.  After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  he 
gave  her  up,  and  came  down-stairs  with  the  intention  of 
going  into  the  library.  But,  as  he  passed  the  west  draw- 
ing-room, he  was  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  sunset, 
which  caught  his  eye  through  the  open  door.  He  came 
in,  and,  walking  straight  across  the  room,  sat  himself 
down  in  the  deep  seat  of  the  middle  window,  to  watch  it. 

Sunsets  always  carried  him  back  to  his  home  and  the 
Mediterranean,  and  he  remained  there,  lost  in  thought, 
and  quite  unaware  that  the  room  was  occupied. 

Lady  Seaforth,  gazing  into  the  fire,  also  lost  in  thought, 
had  not  observed  his  entrance:  so  there  the  two  sat,  each 
unconscious  of  the  other's  presence. 

Andrew  was  the  first  of  the  boys  to  make  his  appear- 
ance. He  came  in  by  another  door. 


SEAFORTH.  !59 

"Where  is  Colin?"  said  his  mother. 

"He's  coming,"  answered  Andrew,  "but  he's  not 
quite  finished  a  match  he  is  having  with  the  marker." 

Lady  Seaforth  gave  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"I  wish  he  would  take  things  a  little  more  seriously," 
she  said.  "  I  told  him  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  on  a  sub- 
ject of  great  importance,  and  he  can  stay  playing  at 
tennis  instead  of  coming  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Andrew  looked  uneasy.  "  It's  about  our  prospects, 
mother,  I  suppose?"  he  said  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "it  is;  and  you,  Andrew,  I 
know,  have  the  sense  to  see  what  an  important  matter  it 
is,  and  can  understand  how  anxious  I  am  to  get  things 
settled  while  there  is  still  time." 

"  While  there  is  still  time?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  mean  while  the  things  I  have 
in  view  for  you  are  still  unappropriated." 

"You  mean,"  said  Andrew,  quickly,  "that  you  are 
afraid  they  may  be  wanted  for  other  people." 

"Exactly,"  said  Lady  Seaforth  :  "it  is  everything  to 
be  first  in  the  field.  You  still  wish  to  go  into  the  Church, 
do  you  not?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do,"  answered  Andrew.  " I  am  to  be 
curate  to  Uncle  William  Cartwright  first,  and  then  rector 
of  Seaforth." 

"  We  must  not  be  too  sure,"  she  said. 

"  Why  not?"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  Godfrey  Seaforth  can't 
interfere  with  me.  He  can't  want  the  family  living." 

"  Well,  no,"  she  answered.  "  Of  course  he  can't  want 
it  for  himself;  but  how  do  we  know  what  friends  he  may 
have,  or  what  friends  he  may  make,  to  whom  he  may  ask 
Lord  Seaforth  to  give  it?  He  is  going  to  college ;  he 
will  find  plenty  there  who  may  try  to  get  him  to  promise 
it.  It  is  worth  twelve  hundred  pounds  a  year." 


160  SEA  FORTH. 

"If  it  were  worth  six  hundred  pounds,"  said  Andrew, 
vehemently,  "I  would  rather  have  it  than  any  living  in 
the  world." 

"  You  don't  know  much  about  the  value  of  money," 
she  said,  "or  you  would  not  talk  so  lightly  of  it.  But 
why  do  you  say  this?" 

"Because  I  love  the  place  and  all  the  people,"  he 
answered.  "I  should  like  to  spend  my  life  among  them 
and  in  their  service.  I  would  rather  live  at  Seaforth  in  a 
cottage  than  at  any  other  place  in  a  palace !  It's  come 
over  me  lately,  too,  that  after  all  Colin  and  I  have  no 
real  business  here,  and  that  we  shall  be  kicked  out  some 
day.  So  that  if  I  can  look  forward  to  being  rector  of 
Seaforth  it  won't  seem  so  hard.  I  can  still  hope  to  live 
and  die  in  the  dear  old  place." 

"  Are  you  so  very  devoted  to  Seaforth  ?"  she  said. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  am,  mother.  What  other  home 
have  I  ever  had?" 

"  What  do  you  remember  before  you  came  here?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  kicking  about  in  little  houses  in  London,  in  dull, 
poky  streets,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had 
had  a  home  at  all  till  we  came  to  Seaforth." 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  Glen  at  all?"  she  asked,  in 
surprise,  "  nor  the  little  burn  where  you  and  Colin,  two 
babies,  used  to  paddle  about  with  your  bare  feet?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  remember  it,  really. 
I  feel  as  if  I  did,  sometimes,  because  Colin  has  always 
talked  about  it  so  much,  but  I  know  I  don't  myself." 

"How  strange  it  seems!"  she  said,  half  to  herself. 
"I  had  no  idea  all  recollection  of  Scotland  had  so  en- 
tirely disappeared.  It  is  not  the  case  with  Colin,  I  am 
sure." 

"Oh,  no!"  laughed  Andrew,  "Colin  is  an  out-and- 


SEA  FORTH.  X6i 

out  Highlander.  His  great  hope  and  day-dream  is  to  be 
rich  enough  some  day  to  go  back  to  the  Glen,  and  live 
there.  Then,  too,  he  remembers  further  back  than  I 
do.  He's  always  talking  about  it,  and  he  remembers  the 
people  about,  and  how  devoted  they  were  to  us." 

Colin's  entrance  here  interrupted  the  conversation, 
and,  catching  the  last  words,  he  began  to  whistle,  first, 
''Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,"  and  finished  up 
with,  "  Far  away  in  bonnie  Scotland." 

A  few  minutes  before,  Lady  Seaforth  would  have  been 
provoked  at  what  she  would  have  considered  his  want  of 
consideration  of  the  importance  of  the  matter  under  dis- 
cussion. But  the  realization  of  the  total  disappearance 
of  her  younger  son's  nationality  had  given  her  rather  a 
shock,  and  so  Colin's  burst  of  Highland  enthusiasm  did 
not  displease  her. 

"Well,  now  that  you  have  come,  Colin,"  she  said,  "be 
steady,  and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened  a  little  way,  and  little 
Joan  peeped  in.  She  looked  straight  at  the  west  window, 
where  Godfrey  was  concealed,  and  was  going  to  spring 
towards  him,  when  she  suddenly  perceived  the  other  oc- 
cupants of  the  room.  In  an  instant  she  was  gone,  before 
any  one  but  Colin  noticed  her,  and  he  was  too  much  in- 
terested in  what  his  mother  was  saying  to  make  any  re- 
mark on  the  little  girl's  unwonted  appearance  in  the 
drawing-room. 

Lady  Seaforth  then  recapitulated  what  she  had  said  to 
Andrew,  and  asked  Colin  whether  he  had  also  quite  made 
up  his  mind  as  to  his  future,  and  whether  the  prospects 
held  out  to  him  were  really  what  he  desired.  "  For  there 
must  be  no  changing,"  she  said,  "after  I  have  once  spoken 
to  Lord  Seaforth." 

Colin  expressed  himself  perfectly  satisfied.  He  had 
14* 


1 62  SEA  FORTH. 

always  wished,  he  said,  to  go  into  Parliament,  and  he 
wished  it  still. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Lady  Seaforth,  well  pleased  with  the 
result  of  the  interview ;  "  then  I  think  I  clearly  under- 
stand that  your  minds  are  made  up,  and  I  shall  speak  to 
Lord  Seaforth  at  once.  It  would  have  been  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  me  if  either  of  you  had  taken  any  other 
idea  into  your  heads,  and  I  am  delighted  to  think  that 
your  wishes  and  mine  should  coincide  so  exactly." 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation  after  this,  and,  in 
the  silence,  the  sound  as  of  some  one  moving  in  the  win- 
dow was  distinctly  heard. 

All  three  looked  round  in  that  direction. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then,  to  their  un- 
disguised dismay  and  astonishment,  Godfrey  suddenly 
emerged  out  of  the  deep  recess,  and,  without  looking  to 
the  right  or  to  the  left,  walked  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

THE   CLASHING   OF   INTERESTS. 

LADY  SEAFORTH  started  to  her  feet  and  threw  up  her 
hands  in  dismay.     She  was  speechless ;  but  the  boys  were 
loud  in  their  exclamations  of  horror  and  astonishment. 
"  Well !"  exclaimed  Colin.      "  I  never  knew  anything  so 
shabby  in  my  life  !     I  would  not  have  believed  it  of  God- 
frey Seaforth  !     I  can  hardly  believe  it  now  !" 
"Sneak!"  cried  Andrew,  "eavesdropper!" 
"  Can  he  have  been  there  the  whole  time  ?"  exclaimed 


SEA  FORTH.  j63 

Lady  Seaforth,  when  she  at  last  found  her  voice.  "What 
is  to  be  done?" 

"He  must  have  been,"  said  Andrew.  "He  did  not 
come  in  since  I  have  been  here,  that  I'll  declare.  He 
must  have  heard  every  word  we  said." 

Lady  Seaforth  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in 
an  agitated  manner,  going  over  in  her  OWQ  mind  every 
word  of  the  recent  conversation.  "Will  he  repeat  it? 
Will  he  repeat  it?"  was  the  question  that  kept  forcing 
itself  upon  her.  Judging  him  from  her  own  standard, 
measuring  his  feelings  towards  her  by  her  feelings  towards 
him,  imputing  to  him  the  motives  by  which,  in  such  a 
case,  she  would  herself  have  been  actuated,  he  most  un- 
doubtedly would  !  And,  in  great  alarm,  she  quickly  left 
the  room  and  took  her  way  to  her  husband's  private  apart- 
ments. 

The  door  of  the  library  was  partly  open.  Voices  were 
heard  from  within,  and  she  stood  still  and  listened. 

"And  you  really  would  like  to  go  into  Parliament  ?" 
were  the  words  which  fell  upon  her  ear.  "  I  am  willing, 
indeed,  I  am  anxious,  that  you  should.  I  was  not  in  the 
House  of  Commons  myself,  nor  were  my  father  and  grand- 
father. But  then  our  tastes  did  not  lie  that  way.  With 
you  the  case  is  different.  Have  you  ever  tried  your  hand 
at  speaking?  I  suppose  not." 

"Only  by  myself,"  came,  in  quiet  tones,  the  voice  she 
hated  so  bitterly.  "  I  have  sometimes,  when  alone  on 
the  hills  at  home,  made  imaginary  speeches  on  different 
subjects." 

"You  shall  try  at  a  tenants'  dinner  some  day.  There 
will  be  one  before  you  go.  Let  me  see :  how  old  are 
you?" 

"I  shall  be  eighteen  on  January  the  26th." 

"  Well,  then,  you  will  be  twenty- two  just  at  the  time 


1 64  SEAFORTH. 

of  the  next  general  election,  and  that  would  be  the  time 
too  when  you  are  leaving  Oxford.  So  it  all  fits  in  admir- 
ably. You  are,  of  course,  the  proper  person  to  represent 
the  county,  and " 

But  Lady  Seaforth  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  rushed 
back  to  her  sons  in  a  tumult  of  indignation. 

"He  has  been  listening  the  whole  time!"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  he  has  heard  every  word  we  said,  and  then 
rushed  off  to  his  uncle  to  foil  all  our  plans." 

She  then  repeated  what  she  heard,  adding  comments 
of  her  own. 

The  boys  were  at  first  dumb  with  dismay  and  astonish- 
ment. 

"Nevermind,  mother,"  said  Colin,  at  last,  soothingly, 
"  there  are  plenty  of  other  seats  to  be  had.  And  to  tell 
you  the  truth  I  would  far  rather  represent  my  own  county, 
or  some  Scotch  borough.  It  is  much  more  natural  I 
should." 

"Your  own  county!  a  Scotch  borough!"  she  ex- 
claimed, bitterly.  "You  talk  as  if  you  had  a  large 
fortune  at  your  command.  Who  is  to  pay  for  your  elec- 
tion ?  When  will  you  understand  that  you  and  Andrew 
are  paupers,  absolute  paupers?" 

"Well,  I  declare,  mother,"  exclaimed  Colin,  rather 
warmly,  "  this  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  enlightened 
us  !  I  always  thought " 

"  Thought  what?"  she  said,  with  increasing  bitterness. 
"That  Lord  Seaforth  was  going  to  leave  you  each  a  large 
fortune,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  don't  let  us  quarrel  over  it,  mother,"  said 
Colin,  lightly. 

His  own  temper  was  quite  imperturbable,  and  he  always 
changed  the  subject  when  his  mother  lost  hers. 

"And  so  you  actually  spotted  the  eavesdropper  in  the 


SEA  FORTH.  ^5 

room?"  he  went  on.  "  How  did  he  look  when  he  saw 
you?" 

"  He  didn't  see  me.  No  one  saw  me,"  said  Lady  Sea- 
forth,  without  perceiving  the  admission  she  was  making. 
"I  didn't  go  in  when  I  found  he  was  there." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  what  he  said?"  inquired 
Colin,  innocently. 

"I  listened  at  the ,"  began  Lady  Seaforth,  but 

suddenly  stopped  herself,  "  I  mean  the  door  was  a  little 
open,  and  I  couldn't  help  hearing  what  was  being  said." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Colin,  quietly. 

"Why?"  she  said,  sharply. 

"Because,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "we  can't  make 
out  a  case  against  him  for  listening  if  we  came  by  our 
proofs  the  same  way." 

The  implied  reproof  stung  Lady  Seaforth. 

She  answered  at  random.  "We  shan't  want  proofs,  as 
you  call  it.  The  proofs  of  his  meanness  will  be  that, 
when  I  ask  Lord  Seaforth  for  the  seat  and  the  living,  he 
will  tell  me  he  has  promised  both." 

"  But  why  the  living?"  broke  from  Andrew. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  desperately.  "  I  feel 
as  if  it  would  slip  from  us  too.  Everything  is  against  us. 
Our  luck  is  quite  gone." 

Colin  here  slipped  away,  annoyed  at  the  turn  the  con- 
versation was  taking,  but  Andrew  came  nearer,  and  sat 
down  by  his  mother  on  the  sofa. 

"If  you  can  convince  Lord  Seaforth,"  he  said,  "that 
his  nephew  is  a  sneak, — which  he  is,  which  he  must  be, 
— he  will  not  perhaps  be  so  ready  to  do  what  he  asks 
him." 

Lady  Seaforth  looked  at  her  son,  and  felt  how  little 
he  understood  the  matter,  and  how  impossible  it  was 
to  explain  it  to  him. 


1 66  SEA  FORTH. 

"I  hate  him,  Andrew,"  she  cried,  her  self-control 
leaving  her  entirely. 

"  I  know  you  do,  mother,"  he  answered  ;  "  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  see,  he  deserves  it." 

Now  this,  though  Andrew  did  not  know  it,  was  the 
very  balm  his  mother  needed.  It  was,  as  we  know,  one  of 
her  sorest  grievances  that  she  could  never  catch  Godfrey 
tripping,  nor  drag  him  down.  But  now  she  really  had  a 
handle  against  him,  and  if  she  only  used  it  properly  she 
might  succeed  in  lowering  him  in  her  husband's  eyes. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  in  her  power.  This  thought  restored 
to  her  her  equanimity,  and  raised  her  drooping  spirits 
once  more. 

"It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  one  any  good,"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  rose  from  the  sofa,  and,  followed 
by  Andrew,  went  into  her  own  boudoir  to  tea. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

A   RIDDLE  AND   ITS   ANSWER. 

THIS  was  only  the  beginning ;  for  when  Lady  Seaforth 
formally  announced  to  her  husband  that  she  was  sending 
her  younger  son  to  the  university,  with  a  view  to  holy 
orders,  and  asked  him  to  put  his  name  down  for  the  next 
presentation  to  the  living,  he  informed  her  that  he  had, 
that  very  day,  by  his  nephew's  desire,  promised  it  to  the 
tutor  now  resident  in  the  house. 

From  that  day  she  lost  no  opportunity  of  trying  to 
make  Godfrey  feel  that  he  was  in  her  power.  There  was 
not  an  innuendo,  not  an  allusion  of  any  kind,  that  she 


SEAFORTH.  167 

did  not  turn  to  account  at  dinner  before  every  one.  She 
would  make  meaning  remarks,  and  then  try  to  abash  him 
by  looking  fixedly  at  him. 

But,  strange  to  say,  Godfrey  neither  blushed,  nor 
avoided  her  eye,  nor  did  any  of  those  things  a  guilty 
person  is  supposed  to  do.  "  Hardened  effrontery,"  Lady 
Seaforth  called  it ;  but  her  eldest  son  had  a  different 
opinion. 

It  was  a  most  disagreeable  atmosphere  to  live  in,  and 
Colin  wanted  his  mother  to  put  an  end  to  it  by  taxing 
Godfrey  with  his  conduct  to  his  face,  and  giving  him  a 
chance  of  speaking  in  his  own  defence. 

But  this  Lady  Seaforth  would  not  do  at  present.  She 
enjoyed  too  much  the  feeling  that  she  had  at  last  caught 
her  enemy  in  a  trap,  and  she  wanted  to  harass  him  as 
long  as  possible  before  dealing  him  his  death-blow. 

What  this  death-blow  was  to  be  she  had  not  as  yet 
made  up  her  mind. 

There  was  a  certain  awkwardness  in  making  her  hus- 
band acquainted  with  the  facts  of  the  case  and  the  details 
of  the  conversation.  She  did  not  know  how  much  God- 
frey might  have  repeated  and  how  much  he  might  have 
left  unsaid ;  and  she  did  not  wish  Lord  Seaforth  to  know 
more  about  it  than  could  possibly  be  helped. 

She  wanted  very  much  to  lower  Godfrey  in  his  uncle's 
eyes,  but  then  it  was  difficult  to  do  it  without  revealing 
much  concerning  herself  and  her  sons  which  she  would 
rather  keep  concealed.  For  her  pride  with  respect  to  her 
boys  had  risen  very  much  since  she  had  found  how  hope- 
less it  was  to  expect  any  help  for  them  in  their  future 
from  Lord  Seaforth. 

In  the  course  of  her  interview  with  her  husband  she 
had  gathered  very  clearly  that  even  had  the  things  she 
wanted  for  her  sons  not  been  already  appropriated  he 


1 68  SEAFORTH. 

would  not  have  given  them  to  Colin  and  Andrew.  She 
saw  more  clearly  than  ever  his  consistent  determination 
to  have  nothing  personally  to  do  with  them,  and  to  ignore 
altogether  his  connection  with  them.  So  she  was  deter- 
mined he  should  not  see  how  very  much  she  had  counted 
upon  him  in  her  plans  for  their  provision  in  life.  He 
should  not,  at  any  rate,  have  a  chance  of  exulting  over 
her  discomfiture.  All  this  necessitated  a  very  careful 
consideration  of  her  dealings  with  Godfrey,  and  she  de- 
termined to  do  nothing  in  a  hurry. 

Her  feelings  of  disgust  may  therefore  be  very  easily 
imagined  when  one  day,  as  she  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir, 
revolving  the  crisis  in  her  mind,  and  wondering  how  her 
husband  could  with  safety  be  brought  into  it,  Colin  sud- 
denly burst  in,  exclaiming,  "Acquitted !  acquitted!  Hon- 
orably acquitted  !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  hastily,  "and  whom 
are  you  talking  about?" 

"Whom?"  he  repeated:  'why,  Godfrey  Seaforth,  of 
course.  Mother,  after  all,  he  never  heard  a  single  word 
we  said  !" 

"  Nonsense,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  How  do  you  know  ? 
how  can  you  know?" 

"From  the  best  possible  authority,"  he  answered. 
"He  has  just  told  me  so  himself.  I  have  been  having 
a  long  conversation  with  him.  I " 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  his  story,"  she  interrupted. 

"  But  you  haven't  heard  it  yet !"  exclaimed  Colin. 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?"  she  said,  unwillingly:  "be  quick 
and  tell  it.  Don't  keep  me  on  tenter-hooks  like  this." 

Colin  went  on  to  say  that  Godfrey  not  only  utterly  de- 
nied having  heard  a  word  of  the  conversation,  but  that 
he  could  hardly  get  him  to  believe  that  any  one  had  been 
in  the  room  at  all.  He  seemed  quite  puzzled  at  the  idea, 


SEA  FORTH.  169 

having  imagined  the  room  to  be  perfectly  empty.  It  had 
been  empty,  he  declared,  when  he  came  in  and  when  he 
went  out ',  and  there  had  not  been  a  sound  in  the  room 
during  the  whole  time  he  had  been  there. 

Lady  Seaforth  interrupted  the  narrative  several  times 
with  such  exclamations  as,  "  Nonsense  !  And  you  believe 
this!"  etc.;  but  Colin  went  quietly  on.  He  seemed 
determined  to  tell  the  story  his  own  way.  He  was  evi- 
dently working  up  to  some  point  which  he  kept  in  the 
background,  for  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  the 
whole  time,  more  particularly  when  his  mother  broke  in 
with  her  impatient  exclamations.  "The  proof,"  he  said, 
"  is  that  he  cannot  tell  me  one  word  we  said." 

"  Really,  Colin,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  you  are  very  simple 
for  your  age.  How  can  you  submit  to  have  dust  thrown 
in  your  eyes  in  this  way?  How  can  you  believe  such 
nonsense,  or  call  such  a  cock-and-bull  story  a  proof?" 

"I  am  expounding  a  riddle,  mother  dear,"  answered 
Colin.  "You  are  a  clever  woman,  and  must  guess  the 
answer.  The  answer  to  a  riddle,  you  know,  always  seems 
impossible  till  you  know  it.  Now,  here  it  is : 

"  He  was  in  the  room,  we  were  in  the  room.  We 
talked,  and  yet  he  never  heard  a  word  of  our  conversa- 
tion !  Je  vous  le  donne  en  cinq,  je  vous  le  donne  en  dix. 
Do  you  give  it  up?  Well,  then,  here  is  the  answer. 
He  was  asleep  the  whole  time  !  There  now,  mother,  what 
do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  she  said,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  with  ill-concealed  fury.  "  I  wish 
you  hadn't  interfered.  Why  were  you  so  officious?" 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  this  condemning  a  man 

unheard  was  more  than  I  could  stand.     It  went  against 

me;  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.     The  evidence  of  his 

having  listened  was  too  strong  for  me  to  dispute  it,  but 

H  15 


170 


SEA  FORTH. 


I  did  always  doubt  his  having  made  use  of  his  informa- 
tion. I  felt  sure  it  was  a  mere  coincidence.  I  couldn't 
believe  Godfrey  Seaforth  capable  of  such  meanness.  You 
have  only  to  look  at  his  face." 

"You  are  like  a  romantic  school-girl !"  she  exclaimed, 
contemptuously.  "What  is  there  in  his  face  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about?  I  don't  believe  in  him  one  bit,  and 
I  tell  you  he  has  trumped  up  this  story  for  fear  of  getting 
into  trouble  with  his  uncle." 

"Mother  dear!"  said  Colin,  reproachfully.  He  was 
horrified  to  see  how  his  mother's  hatred  of  Godfrey  was 
triumphing  over  truth,  justice,  and  every  other  noble 
feeling.  He  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 

But  Lady  Seaforth  had  quite  passed  the  bounds  of 
reason  now. 

"Who  is  to  say  whether  he  was  asleep  or  not?"  she 
exclaimed.  "  We  have  only  his  own  word  to  go  upon, 
and  that  is  not  worth  much.  If  you  could  say  you  saw 
him  asleep  yourself,  I  would  believe  his  story ;  but  you 
can't.  No ;  nor  any  one  else.  There  is  no  one  to  cor- 
roborate his  assertion  ;  no  witness  to  the  truth  of  his  tale. 
And  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe  it,  and  I  won't !" 

Colin  looked  disconcerted  for  a  moment,  and  then  a 
sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  mother,"  he  said,  eagerly  :  "  you  say 
you  will  believe  his  assertion  of  being  asleep  if  I  can  find 
a  witness?" 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered,  a  smile  of  triumph  coming 
into  her  face.  "I  will  believe  it  then,  but  not  till 
then." 

"Very  well,"  said  Colin,  "I  also  will  consent  to  abide 
by  the  testimony  of  a  witness.  Mind,  mother,  I  hold 
you  to  your  word.  Now,  I  want  your  leave  to  summon 
a  witness  at  once,  and  your  promise  that  my  witness, 


SEA  FORTH.  !7I 

whoever  it  may  be,  shall  be  allowed  instantly  to  appear 
in  this  very  room." 

"Certainly,"  said  Lady  Seaforth,  again.  "I  grant 
both  requests.  So  summon  your  witness,  O  learned 
judge,  and  arbitrator  in  other  people's  matters  !" 

"Then,"  said  Colin,  whose  spirit  was  now  thoroughly 
roused,  "then,  in  the  name  of  truth  and  justice,  I  sum- 
mon my  sister  Joan  !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   VULNERABLE   PART. 

THE  entrance  of  Andrew  here  interrupted  the  con- 
versation, and  gave  Lady  Seaforth  time  to  recover  from 
the  astonishment  into  which  her  son's  unexpected  words 
had  thrown  her.  By  her  desire,  Colin  made  his  brother 
acquainted  with  the  facts  of  the  case ;  and  when  he  had 
finished  she  turned  to  him,  and  said,  "And  now,  Colin, 
explain  yourself.  What  do  you  mean?  Why  do  you 
bring  the  child's  name  into  this  affair?  What  on  earth 
can  she  have  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"This,"  answered  Colin:  "you  may  not  have  ob- 
served it,  as  you  were  speaking  at  the  time,  but  that  after- 
noon she  came  into  the  west  drawing-room  for  a  moment, 
looked  straight  at  the  window  where  Godfrey  Seaforth 
was  sitting,  and  then  ran  away.  Now,  both  you  and  I, 
mother,  will  consent  to  abide  by  the  testimony  of  a  little 
child." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  bell  as  he  spoke. 

Lady  Seaforth's  face  assumed  a  most  disagreeable  ex- 


172  SEAFORTH. 

pression.  She  almost  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  prevent 
her  son  carrying  out  his  intention,  but  she  checked 
herself,  and  sat  down  upon  the  sofa,  pale  and  agitated. 
She  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the  coming  interview. 
She  would  have  given  anything  to  cancel  her  promise, 
and  to  forbid  the  appearing  of  her  neglected  and  unloved 
child.  But  she  did  not  dare.  Her  son's  sudden  assump- 
tion of  authority  and  determination  surprised  and  over- 
awed her ;  and,  besides,  if  she  withdrew  from  her  word 
it  would  look  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  being  defeated. 

When  the  servant  appeared  she  had  partially  recovered, 
and  herself  sent  the  message  up  to  the  school-room. 

The  trembling  form  of  little  Joan  presently  appeared 
in  the  door-way.  Colin  was  advancing  towards  her,  but 
Lady  Seaforth  imperiously  called  him  back. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  she  said. 

"  Come  right  in,"  she  continued  to  the  child.  "An- 
swer the  questions  I  am  going  to  ask  you,  and  then  you 
can  go  up-stairs  again. 

"  Do  you  remember,  about  a  fortnight  ago,  coming 
into  the  west  drawing-room,  at  about  half-past  four  in 
the  afternoon,  when  it  was  getting  dusk?" 

Little  Joan  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered 
in  the  affirmative. 

"  Whom  did  you  see  in  the  room?" 

The  child  thought  again,  and  then,  indicating  her 
half-brothers,  she  said, — 

"They  were  there,  and  you,  mamma." 

"Anybody  else?" 

"No,  nobody  else." 

A  faint  smile  of  triumph  overspread  Lady  Seaforth's 
face,  and  Colin  breathed  quickly. 

"You  are  sure,"  resumed  Lady  Seaforth,  "that  there 
was  no  one  else  in  any  part  of  the  room?" 


SEAFORTH.  173 

"  No oh  !  except  Godfrey.  He  was  in  the  win- 
dow-seat." 

"  Oh  !  he  was  in  the  window-seat !  You  are  quite 
sure  of  that?" 

"Yes,  quite  sure." 

11  What  was  he  doing?" 

"Nothing.     He  was  sitting  there,  or  at  least " 

"At  least  what?" 

"  I  mean  he  was  half  sitting,  half  leaning,  with  his 
head " 

"  With  his  head  bent  forward,"  interrupted  Lady  Sea- 
forth,  eagerly,  "as  if  he  was  listening  to  something?" 

"No,"  answered  Joan,  "with  his  head  against  the 
window.  He  was  fast  asleep." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Lady  Seaforth.  "You  may 
go." 

Colin  went  away  also.  He  had  no  wish  to  exult  over 
his  mother's  defeat.  Justice  was  done,  and  with  that  he 
was  satisfied. 

Lady  Seaforth  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  agitation  directly 
the  door  was  closed. 

"  He  foils  me  everywhere,"  she  cried,  as  she  threw 
herself  down  upon  the  sofa.  "  He  thwarts  me  every 
way,  balks  me  of  my  revenge,  and  lowers  me  in  the  eyes 
of  every  one.  What  am  I  to  do?" 

In  her  despair,  she  felt  Godfrey  to  be  like  the  man 
in  the  ancient  fable,  who,  dipped  by  his  mother  in  the 
river,  was  rendered  invulnerable  in  every  part.  Worse  ! 
That  man  at  least  was  vulnerable  in  the  heel  by  which 
his  mother  held  him ;  but  this  boy  !  he  had  no  weak 
point,  no  vulnerable  part ;  she  could  neither  wound  his 
feelings  nor  catch  him  tripping.  Unscathed  he  had 
come  out  of  the  trial,  his  honor  unsullied,  his  name 
unblackened  still. 

15* 


1 74  SEAFORTH. 

"  If  only  that  child  had  not  come  into  the  room  at 
that  particular  moment,"  she  went  on,  passionately,  "all 
might  still  have  been  well.  Why,  oh,  why  should  such 
a  thing  have  happened  !  Why,  except  that  she  should 
be  my  bane,  as  she  has  been  from  the  moment  of  her 
birth.  What  spirit  of  evil  omen  could  have  brought  her 
there  just  then?" 

She  was  moaning  all  this  to  herself,  but  Andrew 
caught  the  last  words,  and,  anxious  to  soothe  his  mother, 
and  in  the  hope  of  distracting  her  a  little,  he  answered, — 

"  She  came  to  look  for  Godfrey  Seaforth,  I  dare  say. 
They  are  great  friends." 

"  What /"  she  cried,  turning  upon  him  so  sharply  that 
he  was  quite  startled. 

Andrew  repeated  what  he  had  said,  and  took  the  op- 
portunity of  saying  that  he  thought  it  was  rather  hard 
that  he  and  Colin  should  never  have  been  allowed  to  see 
anything  of  their  little  sister,  nor  to  have  any  communi- 
cation with  her,  and  that  this  comparative  stranger  should 
make  her  his  companion  and  be  so  much  with  her. 

"But  who  allows  it?"  exclaimed  Lady  Seaforth. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  Andrew,  "but 
they  are  a  great  deal  together  up-stairs." 

"Up-stairs!"  said  his  mother,  "in  the  school-room! 
What  can  the  governess  be  thinking  of?" 

"No,"  answered  Andrew,  "I  don't  mean  in  the 
school-room,  but  I  have  seen  them  once  or  twice  sitting 
in  the  picture-gallery  since  I  have  been  home  these  holi- 
days. She  seems  quite  at  home  with  him,  but  Colin  and 
I  never  can  get  her  to  speak,  even  when  we  do  see  her. 
She  seems  too  shy  and  frightened  to  answer." 

Lady  Seaforth  paid  no  attention  to  what  her  son  was 
saying.  She  made  some  hasty  excuse  and  left  the  room. 


SEAFORTH.  175 

She  went  straight  up  to  the  picture-gallery,  pushed  open 
the  heavy  oak  door,  and  looked  in. 

By  the  light  of  the  silver  lamp  Godfrey  and  little  Joan 
were  to  be  seen  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation.  The 
child,  with  her  hair  thrown  back  from  her  flushed  face, 
was  looking  up  at  him,  evidently  giving  him  an  account 
of  the  recent  interview.  He  was  listening  with  deep 
interest,  and  when  the  tale  was  finished  he  bent  down, 
and  took  her  hands  in  his,  saying,  "Thank  you,  little 
Joan.  You  have,  all  unknowing,  cleared  me  from  a  most 
unpleasant  suspicion." 

On  the  dark  face  watching  were  painted  many  and 
various  expressions,  and  she  moved  away  stealthily,  mut- 
tering to  herself,  "At  last !  at  last  !" 

Down  the  passage  to  her  own  apartment  she  went,  still 
muttering  the  same  words  over  and  over  again. 

Yes,  at  last  !  At  last  she  has  discovered  his  vulnerable 
part !  At  last  she  has  found  the  weak  spot  in  his  armor  ! 
And  at  last  she  can  take  her  revenge  !  She  has  at  last  a 
weapon  in  her  own  hands,  which  she  can  wield  as  she 
pleases,  and  with  which  she  has  full  power. 

"  But  not  to-night,"  she  said  to  herself,  wearily,  as  she 
gained  the  door  of  her  own  bedroom.  "I  am  too  worn 
and  weary  with  the  strain  and  excitement  of  the  day 
Wait  till  to-morrow." 


I76 


SEA  FORTH. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE    SPEECH    IN   THE   BANQUETING-HALL. 

WHAT  will  to-morrow  be?     Who  can  tell? 

The  "to-morrow"  for  which  Lady  Seaforth  waited  to 
execute  her  scheme  of  revenge  was  Godfrey's  birthday. 

The  day  dawned  brightly,  and  she  was  roused  at  an 
early  hour  by  the  ringing  of  the  joy-bells,  and  the  boom 
of  the  guns,  which  had  never  been  fired  since  the  day  she 
had  arrived  at  Seaforth  a  bride.  She  soon  discovered 
that  the  day  was  not  to  pass  unobserved.  A  tenants' 
dinner  was  to  take  place  in  the  banqueting-hall,  in  honor 
of  the  occasion,  and  both  Lord  Seaforth  and  his  nephew 
were  to  be  present  at  it. 

Godfrey  all  day  had  a  sense,  whenever  he  was  in  his 
aunt's  presence,  of  there  being  thunder  in  the  air.  There 
was  something  in  her  manner  that  made  him  feel  a  storm 
was  impending;  but  his  mind  was  taken  up  with  many 
matters,  and  more  especially  with  thinking  over  the  speech 
he  was  to  make  to  the  farmers :  so  he  did  not  trouble 
himself  much  about  her. 

The  dinner  was  to  take  place  at  four  o'clock,  and  his 
speech  was  to  follow  his  uncle's  at  the  close  of  the  repast. 

In  the  passage  which  overlooked  from  a  height  the  great 
hall  where  the  tenants'  dinner  was  to  take  place,  there 
was  a  wide  slit  in  the  thick  wall,  which  formed  a  kind  of 
peep-hole,  from  which  all  that  was  going  on  below  could 
be  seen  and  heard.  Originally  designed  for  purposes  of 
safety  in  troublous  times,  it  had  in  more  modern  days 
been  used  for  overlooking  balls  or  banquets ;  and  the 


SEA  FORTH.  !77 

guests  would  often  be  conveyed  up  there  to  look  down 
upon  the  gay  and  festive  scene  below,  which  made  such  a 
pretty  coup-d1  cp.iL  At  this  niche  it  was  settled  by  Joan 
and  Godfrey  that  she  was  to  establish  herself  at  the  hour 
when  the  speeches  were  to  begin,  and  here  she  would  see 
without  being  seen  and  hear  all  that  was  said  below.  She 
was  to  put  her  little  white  handkerchief  up  for  a  minute 
as  a  signal,  so  that  he  should  know  when  she  had  arrived. 

Matters  being  thus  arranged  between  them,  he  came  to 
wish  her  good-by  before  descending  to  the  dinner,  and 
told  her  he  would  come  straight  to  the  picture-gallery 
from  the  banqueting-hall  to  meet  her  directly  the  speeches 
were  over  and  he  could  get  away. 

"You  will  see  from  the  niche,"  he  said,  as  he  left  her, 
"when  I  leave  the  hall,  and  then  we  shall  arrive  at  the 
picture-gallery  at  the  same  time." 

At  four  o'clock  precisely  Godfrey  and  his  uncle  entered 
the  hall  and  took  their  seats  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

The  dinner  was  long,  and  would  have  been  tedious  had 
Godfrey  not  been  interested  by  the  novelty  of  the  pro- 
ceedings. 

It  was  over  at  last ;  and  the  tables  cleared.  Lord 
Seaforth  then  rose  and  said  a  few  words,  which  were 
warmly  received  ;  and  then  Godfrey's  turn  came.  He 
rose  directly,  but  ere  he  opened  his  lips  he  cast  one 
upward  glance  at  the  niche  far  above  him.  Yes,  the  little 
white  handkerchief  was  visible ;  the  signal  was  there. 
Little  Joan  had  arrived.  Secure  of  at  least  one  sympa- 
thetic listener,  Godfrey  felt  more  confidence,  and  he 
began. 

All  present  turned  towards  him  with  interest,  and  the 
deepest  silence  reigned  in  the  hall,  as  his  clear,  quiet  voice 
made  itself  heard.  The  beauty  of  his  intonation,  the 
force  of  the  words  he  chose,  the  fervid  language  in  which 


I  ;8  SEA  FOR  TIT. 

he  clothed  the  thoughts  of  his  mind,  fascinated  his  au- 
dience at  once,  and,  as  he  warmed  with  his  subject, 
completely  carried  them  away.  Every  one,  his  uncle 
included,  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  all  listened  eagerly. 

He  spoke  with  that  utter  freedom  from  self-conscious- 
ness which  is  such  a  charm.  His  earnest  manner,  its 
intensity  and  its  quiet,  the  entire  absence  of  any  tricks 
of  delivery,  or  of  any  affectation  in  his  choice  and 
arrangement  of  words,  all  added  to  the  effect  of  his 
speech.  The  speech  itself,  too,  was  of  that  kind  which, 
so  to  speak,  seems  only  to  scratch  the  surface  of  the 
speaker's  knowledge.  He  seemed  to  have  so  much  be- 
neath it,  to  hold  so  much  in  check;  never  in  any  degree 
to  exhaust  his  subject.  The  impression  he  left  on  the 
minds  of  his  hearers  was  more  how  much  he  could  say 
than  how  much  he  was  saying. 

His  was  the  eloquence  that  comes  from  the  heart's  fire 
acting  on  a  cultured  mind,  and  colored  by  deep  feeling 
and  a  brilliant  imagination.  There  was  in  it  the  living 
germ  of  oratory,  and  it  brought  him  to  a  close  which,  all 
unrealized  by  himself,  was  a  peroration  of  a  very  rare 
kind. 

He  sat  down  when  he  had  finished  as  quietly  as  if  he 
had  been  speaking  to  himself;  as  if,  having  said  what  he 
had  to  say,  he  considered  that  that  was  all  that  was  ex- 
pected of  him,  and  not  as  if  he  thought  he  had  done  any- 
thing out  of  the  common  way.  And  when  cheer  upon 
cheer  rose,  and  hands  were  eagerly  held  out  in  congratu- 
lation, a  flush  of  surprise  mounted  to  his  brow,  succeeded 
by  an  emotion  of  shyness  at  finding  himself  suddenly  the 
object  of  so  much  attention  and  adulation.  For  one  and 
all  were  delighted,  and  "Bravo!  Mr.  Seaforth!"  "Three 
cheers  for  Mr.  Seaforth  !"  rang  from  lip  to  lip. 

His  dark  eyes  glowed  as  he  turned  from  one  to  the 


SEA  FORTH. 


179 


other,  as  he  met  the  grasp  of  his  uncle's  hand,  and  saw- 
that  stern  face  working  with  emotion.  He  was  astonished 
at  the  effect  his  words  had  produced,  at  the  general  de- 
monstration they  had  called  forth.  It  seemed  to  him  he 
had  gained  the  applause  too  easily ;  as  if  what  he  had 
done  was  unworthy  of  so  much ;  for  he  knew  in  himself 
that  this  was  nothing  as  compared  to  what  he  felt  he  might 
do,  as  compared  with  the  standard  at  which  he  aimed.  It 
seemed  hardly  right  that  words  which  came  to  him  so 
easily  as  the  expression  of  his  thoughts  and  opinions 
should  be  made  so  much  of. 

As  soon  as  he  could  escape,  he  left  the  crowded  hall, 
and  went  up  to  the  picture-gallery  to  keep  his  appoint- 
ment with  little  Joan.  She  was  already  there  when  he 
entered,  and  came  running  to  meet  him  with  glowing 
eyes  and  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement. 

"Oh,  Godfrey!  it  was  so  beautiful!  and  it  made  me 
feel  so  proud  and  happy  !" 

"And  did  you  hear  it  well?"  he  said,  smiling  down 
upon  her. 

"  Every  word,"  she  answered  ;  "and  how  they  did  all 
cheer!" 

"But  you  must  have  left,"  said  Godfrey,  "before  it 
was  all  over.  Why  did  you  do  that  ?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  the  child.  "I  was  so  disappointed, 
for  I  wanted  to  see  the  excitement,  and  I  liked  feeling 
all  the  cheering  was  for  your  sake ;  but  just  as  it  was  get- 
ting so  loud,  and  all  the  hand-shaking  beginning,  who 
should  come  to  the  niche  but  mamma!" 

"Lady  Seaforth  !"  exclaimed  Godfrey,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joan:  "so  of  course  I  came  away  directly. 
But  now  tell  me,  Godfrey,"  she  went  on,  throwing  back 
her  hair,  and  gazing  eagerly  up  into  his  face,  "  tell  me 
all  about  it." 


l8o  SEA  FORTH. 

Just  at  this  moment  hasty  footsteps  were  heard  approach- 
ing, one  of  the  doors  was  thrown  rather  violently  open,  and 
Lady  Seaforth  and  her  sons  entered  the  picture-gallery. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

WHAT   FOLLOWED    IN   THE   PICTURE-GALLERY. 

LADY  SEAFORTH'S  face  was  flushed  and'angry,  and  she 
looked  like  one  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit. 

In  truth  she  was.  For  she  had  been  a  witness  of  all 
little  Joan  had  been  so  sorry  to  miss,  of  all  that  would 
have  made  her  "so  proud  and  happy;"  and  I  leave  the 
reader  to  imagine  what  kind  of  spirit  the  sight  had  roused 
within  her. 

Yes,  she  had  seen  the  eager  hands  held  out  to  congratu- 
late her  triumphant  adversary ;  she  had  heard  the  shouts 
which  had  made  the  rafters  ring  with  his  hated  name. 
She  had  seen  him  in  the  very  position  she  had  always 
hoped  for  for  Colin ;  and,  above  all,  she  had  seen  her 
husband's  eyes  glowing  with  love  and  pride,  his  face 
working  with  the  tenderest  emotion. 

Both  as  a  mother  and  as  a  wife  her  feelings  had  been 
outraged.  They  had  been  those  of  Haman  when  he  heard 
the  shouts  accorded  to  Mordecai :  "  Thus  shall  it  be  done 
to  the  man  whom  the  king  delighteth  to  honor." 

Little  Joan  shrank  back  on  her  mother's  entrance,  and 
kept  close  to  Godfrey,  as  if  for  protection. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Colin,"  said  Lady  Seaforth,  turning 
with  a  sort  of  impatient  triumph  to  her  eldest  son,  whose 
pleasant  face  was  clouded,  and  who  looked  as  if  he  wished 


SEA  FORTH.  181 

himself  hundreds  of  miles  away.  "I  told  you  so,  and 
you  would  not  believe  me.  Joan,"  she  continued,  sud- 
denly turning  upon  the  child,  "  what  are  you  doing  here? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  your  being  in  the  picture-gallery? 
Go  back  to  the  school-room  directly." 

Joan  obeyed  at  once,  and  walked  quietly  away.  She 
merely  looked  upon  the  accident  of  her  mother's  arrival 
as  a  disagreeable  interruption,  and  fully  intended  return- 
ing later  for  her  interview  with  Godfrey. 

But  Godfrey,  who,  as  we  know,  had  all  day  long  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  with  regard  to  Lady  Seaforth,  felt  that 
there  was  more  in  all  this  than  met  the  eye.  Something 
in  her  whole  air  and  manner  told  him  that  this  was  no 
accidental  interruption,  but  that  the  whole  scene  had 
been  premeditated  and  predetermined.  He  felt  that  if 
he  did  not  speak  at  once,  the  fast  disappearing  little  figure 
in  the  distance  would  be  the  last  he  should  see  of  little 
Joan. 

"  I  am  leaving  Seaforth  in  a  few  days  for  many  months," 
he  said.  "  May  I  not  go  after  my  little  cousin  and  wish 
her  good-by?" 

Here  Colin  looked  up,  and  seemed  about  to  speak,  but 
changed  his  mind,  and  suddenly  left  the  picture-gallery. 

"You  can  say  good-by  now,"  said  Lady  Seaforth, 
coldly.  "Joan!" 

The  child  heard  the  call,  and  came  back. 

"Your  cousin  wishes  to  take  leave  of  you.  He  is 
going  away  very  soon,  and  you  will  not  see  him  again 
before  he  goes;  for  I  forbid  your  coming  into  the  picture- 
gallery  any  more." 

She  stood  utterly  unmoved  by  the  look  of  despair  that 
came  into  little  Joan's  face,  by  the  quick  involuntary 
clasping  of  her  two  little  hands  together. 

The  child  looked  round  with  her  great  dark  eyes  like  a 
16 


1 82  SEA  FORTH. 

hunted  stag  which  is  trying  to  escape  from  its  tormentors 
and  sees  no  way  open.  First  at  her  mother,  standing 
stern  and  relentless;  then  at  Andrew,  whose  head  was 
turned  away;  till  she  rested  them  on  Godfrey,  who 
was  waiting  to  meet  them.  And  then  their  expression 
changed. 

Whether  Godfrey  had  at  first  had  any  intention  of 
resisting  the  decree  may  be  doubted,  but  at  any  rate  a 
look  he  had  intercepted  of  Lady  Seaforth's  directed  at 
her  daughter  had  caused  him  to  change  his  mind.  For 
it  was  a  look  he  knew  well,  and  he  Tinew  too  the  feelings 
it  denoted.  It  was  the  selfsame  look  his  father  had  been 
wont  to  cast  at  him. 

Alarmed  for  Joan's  sake,  he  settled  in  his  own  mind 
that  resistance  would  be  a  fatal  course  to  pursue,  and  that 
her  greatest  safety  lay  in  complete  submission.  The  child 
would  only  otherwise  suffer  hereafter,  and  he  would  no 
longer  be  at  hand  to  help.  So,  when  Joan's  imploring 
eyes  sought  his,  he  was  ready.  She  read  in  them  what 
he  would  have  her  do. 

Long  and  earnestly  she  gazed,  as  if  learning  her  lesson, 
as  if  gathering  every  moment  strength,  and  calm,  and 
counsel,  from  their  rapt  and  speaking  expression.  And, 
acting  under  their  guidance,  yielding  herself  to  their 
power,  she  came  nearer,  and  held  out  both  her  little 
hands. 

"  Good -by,  Godfrey,"  she  whispered. 

He  bent  over  her  gravely,  almost  solemnly,  holding 
her  trembling  hands  in  his.  "God  bless  you,  little 
Joan  !" 

They  stood  thus  for  a  moment,  he  looking  down  ten- 
derly upon  her,  she  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  his 
face. 

"You  can  go  now,"  said  Lady  Seaforth. 


SEA  FORTH.  183 

Joan's  hands  dropped  listlessly  at  her  side,  and  she 
turned  away ;  while  Godfrey  stood  motionless,  watching 
her.  There — where  they  had  met — they  parted  ;  with 
"Godfrey,  Earl  of  Seaforth,"  looking  down  upon  them, 
and  the  groups  of  smiling  children  around. 

Slowly  she  began  to  recede  down  the  long  gallery 
towards  the  door  at  the  farther  end.  She  had  the  noble 
spirit  of  a  martyr,  this  young  child ;  for,  though  her 
heart  was  bleeding  within  her,  she  would  not  let  him  see 
what  it  cost  her  to  part  like  this.  She  turned  round  as 
she  went,  and  tried  to  reassure  him  by  a  faint  smile. 
God  help  her !  that  smile  was  sadder  than  any  burst  of 
tears  could  have  been. 

He  stands  erect  and  silent,  watching  the  little  figure 
disappear,  marking  with  yearning  love  and  pity  the  light 
childish  step  that  tries  so  hard  not  to  falter,  the  queenly 
little  head  which  strives  to  hold  itself  so  firm.  He  sees 
the  sweet  little  face  turn  and  turn  again  to  take  another 
look  at  him,  till  the  door  at  the  farther  end  is  reached  \ 
and  then  he  begins  to  move  too,  and  walks  with  a  firm 
step  back  to  the  door  by  which  he  entered. 

He  pauses  on  the  threshold  for  a  moment,  and  strains 
his  gaze  to  the  far  distance.  She  is  standing  still  now, 
waiting,  with  her  arms  wreathed  about  the  oaken  door, 
which  she  holds  partly  open.  Brave  she  stands,  and 
smiling ;  all  the  courage  of  a  noble  and  unselfish  spirit 
coming  to  her  aid  in  this  the  supreme  moment  of  her 
young  existence. 

Is  she  not  bearing  up  for  his  sake,  and  acting  at  his 
unspoken  command  ?  Bright  and  firm,  as  long  as  she  can 
see  him  ;  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  as  long  as  her  eyes  can 
still  discern  the  form  she  loves  so  dearly,  her  only  thought, 
to  spare  him  pain  who  has  glorified  her  lonely  existence 
and  showered  upon  her  the  love  and  the  sympathy  of 


j  84  SEA  FORTH. 

which  she  stood  so  sorely  in  need.      Bright  and  firm  ! 
Brave  and  smiling  !  .   .  . 

But,  as  the  old  oak  door  closed  upon  him,  the  light 
went  out  in  the  life  of  little  Joan  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

GODFREY   AT   COLLEGE. 

GODFREY  remained  with  his  tutor  till  October,  and  then 
matriculated  at  Cambridge. 

Many  who  are  reading  this  will  remember,  and  those 
who  have  had  no  opportunity  of  knowing  can  imagine 
what  that  hour  must  be  to  a  young  man  when,  leaving 
home  and  school  behind  him,  he  comes  to  the  university. 
I  have  heard  the  sensations  of  the  first  few  days  described, 
by  a  man  verging  on  forty,  as  some  of  the  happiest  of  his 
existence, — like  nothing  that  goes  before,  nor  that  comes 
after. 

Now  at  last  the  boy  is  a  man.  Now  at  last,  drawing 
up  his  own  arm-chair  to  his  own  fireside,  he  feels  himself 
a  householder,  a  gentleman  at  large,  independent  and 
free.  This  in  the  case  of  any  ordinary  individual.  But 
when  it  is  the  case  of  a  youth  of  mind  and  culture,  there 
are  added  many  other  feelings  to  enhance  the  charm  of 
the  new  position.  How  deeply  must  such  a  one  be  stirred 
by  the  associations  of  the  place  and  their  power !  The 
seat  of  learning  is  alive  with  the  dead,  with  the  memory 
of  all  those  men  who  went  out  from  it  to  the  world  be- 
yond, and  left  great  names  behind  them.  The  possibility 
of  being  even  as  they  is  before  him,  since  what  man  hath 


SEA  FORTH.  185 

done  man  may  do.  Everything  is  before  him  as  it  was 
before  them, — life  and  its  possibilities,  success,  fame,  and 
distinction. 

Such  feelings  were  all  in  turn  experienced  by  our  hero 
in  his  new  life.  In  his  case  too  were  added  to  the  leisure, 
liberty,  and  sense  of  independence,  the  relief  of  having 
escaped  from  an  atmosphere  of  dislike  and  suspicion,  and 
from  the  strain  of  an  uncongenial  companionship. 

Here  he  was  far  removed  from  all  depressing  influences 
and  surroundings,  from  the  shadow  of  jealousy,  and  the 
sense  of  being  in  the  way.  Here  he  found  free  scope  for 
his  own  thirst  for  knowledge  and  love  of  study.  Here, 
buried  in  his  books,  he  could  live  in  the  past,  or,  holding 
converse  with  all  sorts  of  men,  could  hear  opinions  dis- 
cussed, debated,  and  looked  at  from  all  points  of  view. 
He  enjoyed  thoroughly  the  contact  with  cultivated  minds 
and  intellects,  and  began  to  realize  "  the  vastness  of  the 
sea  of  knowledge,"  and  the  "diversity  of  all  shades  of 
human  opinion." 

"A  born  student,"  had  been  his  uncle's  exclamation 
soon  after  he  made  his  acquaintance.  "A  born  orator, 
and  a  close  reasoner,"  the  debating  societies  he  joined 
soon  declared. 

Two  years  passed  away.  Godfrey  had  spent  many 
vacations  at  Seaforth;  but  all  communication  between  him 
and  little  Joan  was  still  ruthlessly  cut  off.  In  all  that  time 
he  had  never  been  more  than  ten  minutes  with  her  alone; 
and  even  these  brief  meetings  had  been  purely  accidental. 

All  resuming  of  their  former  state  of  pleasant  inter- 
course and  companionship  was  out  of  the  question.  Joan 
was  too  closely  watched  to  make  it  possible.  Nurse  and 
governess  were  alike  under  Lady  Seaforth's  orders,  and 
tools  in  her  hands.  It  was  useless  to  try  and  break 
through  them,  worse  than  useless, — cruel.  Any  such 
1 6* 


X86  SEA  FORTH. 

infringements  would  only  have  brought  down  upon  the 
head  of  little  Joan  a  swift  retribution.  So  of  these  brief 
meetings  they  made  the  very  most,  and  lived  on  the  hope 
of  them  from  day  to  day.  Faint  glimpses  they  gave  him 
of  her  dawning  mind,  and  filled  him  more  and  more  with 
admiration  of  her  noble  and  unselfish  character. 

She  was  hardly  a  child  now ;  her  natural  thoughtfulness 
was  deepened  by  the  solitary  life  she  led,  and  both  in 
thoughtfulness  and  intelligence  she  was  far  beyond  her 
years. 

Dawning  upon  him  faintly  was  a  dream  of  days  to 
come.  Softly  at  evening  it  came  floating  over  him  that  a 
time  might  come  when  he  might  take  her  happiness  into 
his  own  safekeeping,  into  the  shelter  of  his  own  love  and 
care, — shield  her  forever  from  all  pain  and  persecution, 
and  make  her  young  life  glad  ! 

His  career  at  college  was  thoroughly  satisfactory  to 
his  uncle.  A  great  career  was  confidently  predicted  for 
him.  Lord  Seaforth's  heart  swelled  with  joy  and  pride 
at  the  thought.  There  were  no  bounds  to  his  dreams,  or 
to  his  ambition  for  his  darling.  A  second  William  Pitt ; 
perhaps  Prime  Minister  at  an  early  age.  Who  should 
say? 

Godfrey  would  be  twenty-two  about  the  time  the  next 
general  election  was  expected  j  as  soon  as  he  was  twenty- 
one  his  uncle  bought  him  a  house  in  London  near  West- 
minster, and  gave  him  an  allowance  of  two  thousand  a 
year.  His  own  private  intention  was  to  come  up  to 
London  and  live  a  good  deal  with  him.  He  saw  him- 
self sitting,  in  fancy,  in  the  peers'  gallery,  listening  to 
Godfrey's  oratory,  and  hearing  whispers  of  his  growing 
fame. 

There  now  therefore  remained  about  a  year  of  God- 


SEA  FORTH.  187 

frey's  university  life,  and  then  he  was  to  stand  for  the 
county,  and  by  entering  the  House  of  Commons  plant 
his  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  of  fame  and  dis- 
tinction, which  his  proud  and  happy  uncle  felt  sure  he 
was  destined  to  climb. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE   GATHERING    OF   THE   CLOUD. 

IT  was  at  about  this  time  that  a  great  and  mysterious 
change  came  over  Godfrey. 

His  uncle,  watching  him  as  usual  as  he  read,  observed 
how  often  his  book  dropped  upon  his  knee,  and  he  sat 
gazing  into  the  fire  in  disturbed  and  gloomy  thought. 
It  was  not  study  or  meditation,  such  as  he  had  been  wont 
to  see  him  indulge  in.  It  was  more  like  the  abstraction 
of  some  one  who  had  something  on  his  mind,  and  the  fit 
of  moody  thought  would  often  end  in  an  abrupt  return  to 
his  book,  as  if  he  were  forcing  himself  to  resume  it,  in 
order  to  banish  uneasy  thoughts  and  to  drive  the  gloom 
away.  Often  he  sat  with  his  book  before  him,  and  did 
not  turn  over  the  leaves  for  half  an  hour. 

Lord  Seaforth  noticed  all  this  with  ever-increasing 
anxiety.  A  feeling  of  alarm,  and  a  dread  of  impending 
trouble,  took  possession  of  him,  and  he  longed  to  ques- 
tion his  nephew  and  to  beg  him  to  take  him  into  his  con- 
fidence. But  he  felt  it  would  be  useless,  unless  Godfrey 
chose  to  do  so  of  his  own  accord. 

From  day  to  day  he  hoped  he  might  speak,  and  give 
him  some  clue  to  his  disturbed  state  of  mind.  But  he 
hoped  in  vain.  Godfrey  remained  silent,  and  Lord  Sea- 


1 88  SEA  FORTH. 

forth  saw  him  depart  at  the  end  of  the  vacation  with  a 
feeling  of  vague  uneasiness. 

All  this  time  the  husband  and  wife  were  drifting  farther 
and  farther  apart.  Ever  since  she  fully  realized  that  he 
still  continued  to  resent  her  early  deception  and  was  de- 
termined to  punish  her  for  it,  she  had  felt  her  boys'  cause 
to  be  hopeless.  Ever  since  she  had  discovered  his  early 
history,  she  had  felt  equally  hopeless  about  her  own. 
She  at  once  realized  the  intensity  and  the  tenacity  of  his 
affections  and  the  intensity  and  the  tenacity  of  his  resent- 
ment. 

She  was  frightened  at  the  nature  that  could  silently 
bear  malice  so  long  and  so  consistently  carry  out  a  scheme 
of  premeditated  revenge.  A  reaction  took  place  in  her 
feelings  towards  him.  In  a  violent  and  passionate  nature 
like  hers,  love  and  hate  lie  very  close  together.  And  the 
one  now  changed  places  with  the  other.  She  began  to 
hate  her  husband ;  to  hate  his  stern  cold  face,  his  set, 
formal  speeches,  and  his  courtly  and  distant  manner. 
She  began  to  long  to  get  out  of  his  silent  presence,  and 
to  feel  how  much  happier  she  should  be  in  London  with 
her  boys. 

For  they  never  came  to  Seaforth  now.  Their  future 
having  so  entirely  changed  in  its  aspect,  made  it  neces- 
sary for  them  to  be  a  great  deal  in  London  ;  and  also  her 
way  of  punishing  her  husband  for  his  treatment  of  them 
was  to  keep  them  away  from  him  altogether.  She  was 
determined  they  should  not  sleep  under  the  same  roof. 
Colin  was  now  in  the  Foreign  Office,  as  a  first  step  in  a 
diplomatic  career.  He  had  come  of  age  some  time  ; 
but  there  was  no  prospect  of  his  ever  being  rich  enough 
to  live  at  his  little  place  in  Nairnshire,  of  which  she 
had  once  spoken  so  confidently  to  Lord  Seaforth,  and 
it  had  been  re-let  for  another  term  of  years.  Andrew 


SEA  FORTH.  ^9 

was  at  the  university.  In  spite  of  his  mother's  wish  that 
he  should,  under  the  altered  circumstances,  abandon  the 
idea  of  going  into  the  Church,  he  had  been  firm  to  his 
original  intention. 

So  that  she  had  an  excuse  for  being  a  great  deal  in 
London  if  she  chose ;  and  she  began  to  make  use  of  it, 
more  especially  at  vacation-times,  when  Andrew  was  in 
want  of  a  home. 

The  punishment,  as  regarded  Lord  Seaforth,  fell  quite 
flat.  He  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  absence  of  his  step- 
sons from  Seaforth,  and  never  made  any  inquiries  about 
them.  And  not  only  so,  but  he  seemed  callous  and  unob- 
servant as  regarded  his  wife's  frequent  and  protracted 
visits  from  home.  He  made  no  objections  to  her  comings 
and  goings,  accepted  with  courtly  readiness  her  somewhat 
bitterly-expressed  reasons  for  being  occupied  with  her 
sons,  and  answered  her  with  his  usual  set  and  formal 
sentences:  "Pray  do  as  you  please;  pray  make  what 
arrangements  you  like." 

The  fact  was,  he  was  glad  to  be  quite  alone.  His  mind 
was  full  of  troubled  thoughts.  For  growing  ever  in  his 
breast  was  that  uneasy  feeling  about  his  nephew,  and  dark 
fears  and  forebodings  were  stealing  over  him.  Was  his 
confidence  misplaced,  after  all  ?  Had  Godfrey  got  into 
some  trouble  of  which  he  dared  not  tell  him  ? 

He  awaited  his  return  for  the  next  vacation  with  deep 
anxiety,  though  not  without  a  hope  that  he  should  find 
the  cloud  had  passed  away,  and  his  darling  his  old  self 
again.  But,  to  his  alarm  and  disappointment,  when 
Godfrey  returned  he  was  just  the  same.  If  anything,  he 
was  worse, — more  abstracted,  more  silent.  There  was  a 
look  of  settled  despondency  on  his  face  that  was  painful 
to  see,  and  he  seemed  with  the  greatest  difficulty  to  force 
himself  to  do  anything,  or  to  take  any  pleasure  in  his 


190 


SEA  FORTH. 


usual  pursuits.  That  he  had  something  on  his  mind  there 
could  be  no  doubt. 

At  last  some  light  was  thrown  upon  the  matter.  It 
came  to  Lord  Seaforth's  knowledge  that  Godfrey  was 
overdrawn  at  his  banker's  for  fifteen  hundred  pounds. 

He  at  once  sent  for  his  nephew,  and  taxed  him  with  his 
extravagance.  He  had  been,  he  reminded  him,  in  receipt 
of  two  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  that  for  not  longer 
than  seven  or  eight  months,  and  he  was  already  over- 
drawn to  such  a  large  amount.  What  had  he  done  with 
the  money? 

Godfrey  was  evidently  determined  to  give  no  explana- 
tion of  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  spent ;  and  on 
Lord  Seaforth's  pressing  the  question,  he  answered,  with 
an  impatience  which  was  quite  foreign  to  him,  and  which 
sat  most  unnaturally  upon  him,  that  he  found  his  allow- 
ance wholly  inadequate  to  meet  his  expenses.  It  was  the 
very  expression  his  father  had  used  years  and  years  ago, 
and  a  cold  feeling  of  dread  struck  upon  Lord  Seaforth's 
heart  as  the  words  fell  upon  his  ear.  Was  history  going 
to  be  repeated,  after  all  ? 

There  flashed  across  his  mind  the  proverb,  "  What  is 
bred  in  the  bone  will  come  out  in  the  flesh."  But  he  was 
determined  not  to  be  hard.  He  merely  pointed  out  to 
his  nephew  that  he  could  not  be  speaking  the  truth  when 
he  made  such  an  assertion,  and  urged  him  to  own  he  had 
got  into  some  trouble  and  been  obliged  to  spend  that 
large  sum  in  consequence. 

But  Godfrey  would  make  no  such  admission.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Lord  Seaforth,  in  a  most  tender  appeal  to 
his  feelings,  prayed  him  to  confide  in  him.  Godfrey 
only  repeated  what  he  had  at  first  said,  that  the  allowance 
was  wholly  inadequate. 

Lord  Seaforth  was  terribly  upset,  but  he  would  not  be 


SEA  FORTH.  191 

harsh.  He  said,  after  a  few  moments'  thought,  that  he 
would  make  it  twenty-five  hundred  pounds,  if  Godfrey 
would  promise,  on  his  word  of  honor,  to  live  within  that 
sum  ;  but  even  this  Godfrey  would  not  do. 

Lord  Seaforth  now  grew  suspicious,  and  changed  his 
tone. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  Godfrey,"  he 
said,  "but  there  is  something  here  which  I  must  not  treat 
with  leniency.  I  should  not  be  doing  my  duty  by  you 
if  I  did.  Many  fathers  would,  in  my  case,  at  once  de- 
prive their  sons  of  their  allowance,  and  trust  them  no 
more.  But  I  believe  in  you,  as  you  know,  and  trust  you 
most  thoroughly.  So  I  overlook  what  has  passed,  and, 
without  asking  you  any  questions,  trust  you  for  the  future. 
Only,  remember,  it  must  not  happen  again.  You  are  on 
trial  now." 

Godfrey  thanked  him  coldly,  but  did  not  seem  the 
least  relieved,  nor  touched  by  his  forbearance  and  gen- 
erosity. He  left  his  uncle's  presence  with  the  same 
heavy  step  and  clouded  brow. 

Perhaps  the  bitterest  part  to  Lord  Seaforth  in  all  the 
bitterness  of  that  interview  was  that  the  appeal  to  his 
nephew's  feelings  had  been  without  the  slightest  effect, 
and  that  he  had  realized  more  than  ever  that  Godfrey 
had  not  a  spa/k  of  affection  for  him  in  his  breast. 

He  loved  the  boy  so  dearly,  and,  alas !  he  loved  him 
not.  He  could  have  taken  him  in  his  arms,  and  wept  over 
him  like  David  of  old,  with  the  old  passionate  cry,  "Oh, 
my  son  !  my  son  !  Would  God  I  might  surfer  for  thee  !" 
And  in  return,  there  was  in  Godfrey's  demeanor  not  only 
an  entire  absence  of  affection,  but  throughout  the  con- 
versation there  had  been  a  kind  of  impatient  shrinking 
from  his  uncle's  demonstration  of  feeling  and  affection 
towards  him,  even  a  sort  of  unexpressed  antagonism. 


1 92  SEA  FORTH. 

CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE   CLOUD    BURSTS. 

ANOTHER  six  months  passed  away,  but  there  was  no 
change  in  Godfrey.  In  spite  of  the  increased  allowance 
he  was  more  and  more  heavily  overdrawn,  and  on  the 
subject  of  the  disposal  of  these  large  sums  he  remained 
obstinately  silent.  Lord  Seaforth  waited  till  his  univer- 
sity career  was  over  before  he  took  the  matter  thoroughly 
in  hand.  But  as  soon  as  Godfrey  returned  to  Seaforth 
for  good  he  was  determined,  if  he  could  not  extract  a 
confession  from  him,  that  he  would  deprive  him  of  his 
allowance  altogether,  and  deal  with  him  with  the  utmost 
severity. 

He  summoned  him  to  his  presence  the  day  after  his 
arrival,  and  entered  again  upon  the  subject.  He  began 
by  urging  Godfrey  to  confide  in  him,  and  not  to  drive 
him  to  extremities  from  which  he  shrank  quite  as  much 
as  his  nephew  himself  could  do. 

But  Godfrey  answered  that  it  was  quite  impossible. 

Struck  with  a  sudden  idea,  Lord  Seaforth  suddenly 
turned  upon  him  and  said,  "You  are  supplying  your 
father." 

It  was  a  wild  hope,  and  his  disappointment  was  great 
when  the  young  man  replied,  with  a  decision  which  there 
was  no  mistaking,  "I  have  never  sent  my  father  a  five- 
pound  note,  and  I  never  will." 

"Godfrey,"  implored  Lord  Seaforth,  "make  a  free 
confession.  You  have  been  gambling,  racing  ;  but  only 
confess,  only  take  me  into  your  confidence,  and  I  freely 


SEAFORTH.  !93 

forgive  you.     I  will  overlook  all  and  everything.     Speak, 
I  implore  you !" 

Godfrey  remained  silent. 

"Then,"  said  Lord  Seaforth,  "listen  to  me.  You 
have  been  taken  from  poverty  and  expatriation,  and 
raised  to  a  position  all  might  envy.  /  have  done  this 
for  you,  but  I  solemnly  declare  that  if  you  persist  in  this 
course  I  will  deprive  you  of  all  the  advantages  I  am  ready 
to  shower  upon  you.  No  spendthrift  shall  be  taken  by 
the  hand  by  me.  And  remember  you  can  do  nothing 
without  my  help.  Remember  too  that,  old  as  I  look,  I 
am  only  forty-nine.  You  may  be  kept  out  of  your  in- 
heritance till  you  are  an  elderly  man.  And  in  the  mean 
time  I  will  do  nothing  for  you, — nothing !" 

Godfrey  received  all  this  in  the  same  apathetic  manner. 
He  would  make  no  promises,  pledge  himself  to  nothing. 

"But  don't  you  care  for  yourself?"  burst  out  his 
uncle.  "Have  you  no  family  pride,  no  pride  in  posses- 
sion, no  feeling  for  this  princely  estate,  nor  for  the  grand 
old  name  that  has  been  handed  down  to  you  through 
countless  generations?" 

"  None,"  answered  Godfrey.  "  Why  should  I  ?  I  was 
born  and  bred  abroad.  I  and  my  sisters  are  foreigners ; 
you  made  us  so ;  it  was  not  our  doing.  But  the  fact  re- 
mains. I  care  nothing  for  name  or  property.  They  are 
nothing  to  me." 

It  was  a  fearful  thrust,  and  it  cut  Lord  Seaforth  to  the 
heart.  If  he  had  been  harsh  to  his  brother  in  those  old 
days  to  which  that  brother's  son  was  now  alluding,  he 
was  heavily  punished.  At  that  moment  Godfrey  Seaforth 
the  outlaw  was  amply  avenged. 

"Uncle  Harold,"  exclaimed  Godfrey,  suddenly,  "let 
us  agree,  you  and  I,  to  cut  off  this  entail.     Disinherit  me 
altogether,  and  leave  everything  to  your  own  legal  heir." 
i  17 


1 94  SEA  FORTH. 

"My  legal  heir  !"  exclaimed  Lord  Seaforth. 

"Yes,"  said  Godfrey, 'eagerly,  "  your  daughter  !  Only 
in  her  hands  can  it  be  safe,  I  do  assure  you." 

Lord  Seaforth  rose  from  his  chair  in  the  surprise  of 
the  moment,  and  then,  sitting  down  again,  he  said, 
scornfully,  "I  see  what  you  mean.  You  want  the  money 
now.  You  want  to  bribe  me  to  give  you  a  larger 
income  to  make  ducks-and-drakes  with,  by  consenting 
to  cut  off  the  entail.  True  gambler  that  you  are,  im- 
bued so  truly  with  a  gambler's  spirit,  you  are  ready  to 
sacrifice  the  future  for  the  sake  of  the  present,  and  to 
barter  your  inheritance  for  a  mess  of  pottage  !" 

"Not  so,"  answered  Godfrey:  "you  mistake  me.  I 
neither  ask  nor  will  I  accept  one  shilling  from  you.  I 
resign  my  pretensions  unconditionally.  All  I  ask  is  that 
you  will  leave  everything  to  your  daughter,  and  let  me 
go  my  own  way." 

Lord  Seaforth  gazed  at  him  in  bewilderment. 

"You  do  not  care  for  your  family  or  your  inherit- 
ance," he  said,  bitterly;  "but  what  has  become  of  the 
ambition  of  which  I  believed  you  to  be  so  full?  Richly 
endowed  as  you  are,  are  all  your  talents,  all  your  abilities, 
to  come  to  nothing  ? — your  honors  of  oratory,  and  all 
your  many  gifts?  Are  you  going  to  shut  yourself  out 
from  a  career  of  brilliancy  and  usefulness  ?  from  that 
political  life  the  thoughts  of  which  you  held  so  dear  ? 
You  can  do  nothing  without  money,  nor  can  you  stand 
without  my  influence.  Nor  will  any  constituency  take 
a  representative  with  a  brand  on  his  name.  And  I  will 
denounce  you  at  any  hustings.  I  will  hold  you  up  as  a 
gambler  and  a  villain  :  I  swear  I  will  do  it,  though  my 
heart  should  break  as  I  said  the  words." 

He  had  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  now.  At  the 
thought  of  the  crumbling  away  of  that  bright  dream  of 


SEAFORTH. 


195 


distinction  and  success  the  young  man  writhed  in  his 
chair.  But  he  made  no  answer. 

Lord  Seaforth  now  dropped  the  upbraiding,  even 
threatening  tone  he  had  adopted,  and  made  a  last 
mournful  and  passionate  appeal  to  his  nephew's  feelings. 

"Must  I,"  he  concluded,  in  faltering  accents,  "must 
I  give  up  all  hope  of  your  confession?" 

"A//,"  answered  Godfrey. 

"Very  well,"  said  his  uncle,  in  a  voice  choked  with 
emotion:  "/can  make  no  impression.  To  honor,  duty, 
gratitude,  and  affection  you  are  deaf  and  blind.  But 
one  thing  remains."  His  voice  faltered  more:  "You 
love  your  mother.  That  I  know,  and  where  /  fail  she 
may  succeed.  I  shall  send  for  her." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Godfrey,  springing  to  his  feet  with 
a  cry.  "  Spare  her  !  spare  her  !  Uncle  Harold,  you  do 
not  know  what  you  are  doing.  Spare  her  the  terrible 
sorrow,  the  unutterable  shame.  Oh,  spare  her !  spare 
her!" 

Both  were  powerfully  agitated.  But  Lord  Seaforth 
saw  the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and  would  not  budge 
an  inch  from  his  position. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,"  he  said,  firmly:  "nothing 
that  you  can  say  will  turn  me  from  my  determination." 


I96  SEAFORTH. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

AT   LENGTH   WE   MEET   AGAIN,    LOVE. 

AND  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  a  few  days  after  this 
interview,  in  the  room  where,  four  years  before,  Lord 
Seaforth  had  sat  waiting  for  Godfrey,  he  now  sits  wait- 
ing for  Hester. 

The  carriage  has  gone  to  fetch  her  at  the  station,  and 
he  is  expecting  her  every  moment.  It  is  early  morning, 
for  she  is  coming  by  the  night  train.  She  can  only  be 
spared  from  home  for  two  days,  and  must  return  to 
Monaco  with  all  possible  speed. 

He  has  not  seen  her  for  four-and-twenty  years,  and 
those  years  have  of  course  wrought  a  change  in  his 
feelings  towards  her.  She  is  not  so  much  to  him  now 
the  idol  of  his  youth,  as  the  mother  of  the  idol  of  his 
later  years ;  and  the  thought  of  her  coming  does  not  so 
much  rouse  in  him  the  memory  of  past  joys  and  sorrows 
concerning  himself,  as  hope  that  she  may  be  able  to 
throw  some  light  on  his  present  troubles  and  perplexities. 

And  yet  he  trembles  when  the  door  opens  and  the  love 
of  his  life  stands  before  him.  The  rush  of  old  memories 
would  come  over  him  all  the  same,  as  his  eyes  rest  once 
more  on  the  beautiful  face  which  has  haunted  the  cham- 
bers of  his  soul  for  so  long.  It  almost  seems  to  him  as  if 
she  must  be  transported  back  to  the  old  days  too, — that 
she  will  let  the  years  roll  back,  and  will  speak  of  that 
time  again. 

But  there  is  no  answering  memory  in  her  look.  All  the 
mother  is  in  those  lovely  eyes  of  hers  as,  after  the  first 


SEAFORTH. 


197 


hasty  glance  at  Lord  Seaforth,  they  look  beyond  him  and 
all  round  the  room,  as  though  searching  for  something  on 
which  they  had  long  been  yearning  to  dwell.  That  other 
connection  of  her  life  with  his  is  so  far  away  in  the  past, 
it  forms  so  completely  a  part  of  her  early  girlhood,  that  it 
is  to  her  only  like  a  tale  she  had  once  read  and  wellnigh 
forgotten. 

And  Lord  Seaforth  felt  that  it  was  so.  If  there  was 
any  disappointment  in  his  heart,  he  concealed  it  success- 
fully ;  and  his  manner  was  a  mixture  of  gentleness  and 
deep  respect  as  he  advanced  to  meet  her,  and  then  led 
her  to  a  seat  by  the  fire. 

He  thanked  her  earnestly  for  coming,  and  for  coming 
so  promptly,  and  then  asked  her  if  she  would  not  like 
some  rest  and  some  refreshment  before  they  entered  on 
the  painful  business  which  had  brought  them  together. 
But  Hester  would  have  nothing.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  but  her  boy ;  and  she  begged  him  at  once  to  tell 
her  the  story  from  beginning  to  end.  "For  I  know  so 
little,"  she  said,  sadly,  "so  little!  But,  Lord  Seaforth," 
she  added,  quickly,  drawing  herself  up,  proudly,  "  I  am 
full  of  hope  and  confidence.  I  trust  my  son  so  fully.  My 
faith  in  him  is  so  complete." 

Lord  Seaforth,  pained  that  she  should  for  a  moment 
think  it  necessary  to  defend  one  he  loved  so  deeply,  pre- 
faced his  narrative  by  an  earnest  and  pathetic  entreaty 
that  she  would  not  think  he  had  been  harsh  to  her  boy ; 
and,  as  he  did  so,  his  love  for  Godfrey  showed  itself  so 
plainly  that  the  mother's  heart  was  won  at  once. 

"  I  have  no  son  of  my  own,  as  you  know,"  he  said,  in 
a  faltering  voice,  "but,  before  God,  I  assure  you  that  I 
do  not  believe  a  son  of  my  own  could  be  dearer  to  me 
than  your  boy." 

Hester  could  hardly  restrain  her  tears  of  gratitude  at 
17* 


I98  SEA  FORTH. 

the  thought  that  her  boy  was  so  loved  and  appreciated. 
"God  bless  you,  Harold!"  she  exclaimed;  "God  bless 
you  for  words  like  these  !" 

The  relief  it  was  to  speak  out,  and  talk  of  him  to  an- 
other who  loved  him  so.  Their  individual  lives  and 
histories  were  merged  at  last !  merged  in  one  object  of 
mutual  love  and  adoration. 

He  then  gave  the  whole  account  of  the  affair  from  the 
beginning  as  the  reader  knows  it,  and  detailed  all  the 
different  conversations  he  had  had  with  his  nephew.  When 
he  had  finished,  Hester  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Now  take  me  to  him,"  she  said.  "I  feel  that  if  I 
may  only  speak  to  him  face  to  face,  all  will  yet  be  well." 

Lord  Seaforth  led  the  way,  and  she  followed  him  with 
a  beating  heart. 

"  Tell  me,  Harold,"  she  said,  as  they  went  along,  "is 
he  tall?  Is  he  handsome  as  when  I  sent  him  to  you?" 

"He  is  beautiful  as  the  day,"  he  answered,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  "and  taller  than  I  am  myself." 

As  they  turned  down  the  passage  that  led  to  Godfrey's 
rooms,  and  stood  outside  his  door,  her  step  suddenly  fal- 
tered. A  great  fear  came  into  her  heart  at  the  thought  of 
the  coming  interview.  It  was  a  man  past  twenty-one  she 
was  now  going  to  see,  and  not  the  boy  of  seventeen  with 
whom  she  had  parted. 

"  Nearly  four  years,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Will  he  be 
quite  what  I  remember  ?  Is  he  not  almost  a  stranger  to 
me  ?  How  will  he  meet  me  under  these  new  and  unhappy 
circumstances  ?' ' 

She  must  have  him  to  herself.  No  other  human  eye 
must  see  the  meeting  between  them. 

"Leave  us,  Harold,"  she  said,  beseechingly,  turning 
to  Lord  Seaforth;  "leave  me  and  my  boy  together.  I 
must  meet  him  alone." 


SEA  FORTH. 


199 


Lord  Seaforth  opened  the  door  with  a  trembling  hand, 
and  remained  as  she  desired  in  the  passage. 

"  Godfrey,  my  darling  !"  he  hears  her  cry  as  she  enters. 
"  My  precious  boy,  come  to  me." 

He  hears  no  answer,  no  sound;  and,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  he  calls  out  to  her  to  go  through  the  study  into 
the  bedroom  beyond,  for  that  perhaps  he  is  not  yet 
dressed.  And,  unable  to  bear  the  suspense,  he  follows 
her,  and  they  stand  together  in  the  doorway,  as  in  a 
dream. 

A  dead  silence  follows,  broken  by  a  low  cry  of  pain. 
For  the  rooms  are  both  empty  ;  the  bed  is  unslept  on ; 
and  it  is  clear  that  Godfrey  has  fled  ! 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 

LADY  SEAFORTH  had  been  spending  some  weeks  with 
her  sons  in  London,  but,  as  they  had  now  both  gone  on 
a  visit  to  Lady  Margaret  Cartwright,  she  prepared  to  go 
back  to  Seaforth.  She  had  not  heard  anything  from 
home  for  a  long  period,  and  she  felt  it  was  time  to 
return. 

She  wrote  to  her  husband  to  announce  her  advent ; 
and  she  arrived  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after  that  on 
which  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  chapter  had  oc- 
curred. 

She  was  greeted  with  the  astounding  news  that  Lord 
Seaforth  was  away  from  home,  and,  on  advancing  into 


200  SEAFORTH. 

the  hall,  she  saw  her  own  letter  to  him  lying  unopened 
upon  the  table. 

This  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  which  Lady  Seaforth 
could  not  stand.  She  could  not  bear  that  the  servants 
should  see  how  completely  her  husband  kept  her  in  igno- 
rance of  his  movements,  and  how  little  communication 
there  was  by  letter  between  them.  She  would  gladly 
have  asked  nothing  more  and  pretended  she  knew  all 
about  it ;  but  bewilderment  and  curiosity  impelled  her 
to  put  a  few  questions. 

The  answers  nearly  took  her  breath  away. 

Lord  Seaforth  had  left  very  early  that  morning,  and 
had  gone  to  Folkestone  with  Mrs.  Seaforth,  who  was  to 
cross  that  night.  Mrs.  Seaforth  had  been  staying  at  the 
house  since  the  morning  before.  She  had  arrived  from 
abroad  on  Tuesday,  and  was  obliged  to  return  imme- 
diately. 

A  few  more  short  sharp  questions  from  Lady  Seaforth, 
and  she  was  in  the  possession  of  the  news  with  which  the 
butler  was  bursting,  with  which  the  whole  place  was  ring- 
ing. Mr.  Seaforth  had  got  into  trouble  and  had  gone  no 
one  knew  where.  He  had  taken  flight  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  and  no  clue  to  his  whereabouts  could  be  dis- 
covered. 

"His  lordship,"  added  the  butler,  feelingly,  "was 
terribly  cut  up.  He  seemed  quite  knocked  over ;  and  as 
to  Mr.  Seaforth's  mother,  she  looked  more  dead  than 
alive  when  she  left." 

Lady  Seaforth  felt  quite  stunned  with  all  these  startling 
pieces  of  information.  Godfrey  disgraced  and  flown  ! 
That  was  the  first  feeling,  and  a  feeling  of  wild  exultation 
it  was.  But  above  the  triumph  of  the  fall  of  her  enemy 
was  a  burning  resentment  against  her  husband  for  the  way 
in  which  he  had  treated  her,  and  the  humiliating  state  of 


SEAFORTH.  2O1 

ignorance  in  which  he  had  kept  her.  He  must  have 
known  for  some  time  past  that  something  was  impending; 
it  could  not  have  been  a  new  or  sudden  thing  to  him, 
since  he  had  had  time  to  summon  his  sister-in-law  to 
his  help.  And  he  had  never  told  her  a  word  !  never 
written  her  a  line !  had  kept  her  completely  in  the 
dark! 

Hastily  escaping  from  the  inquisitive  eye  of  the  butler 
and  men-servants,  she  made  her  way  to  her  own  boudoir, 
breathless  with  the  rush  of  wild  anger  and  rebellion  which 
swept  over  her. 

She  could  not  sit  still.  She  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  panting.  She  persuaded  herself  she  had  seen  the 
servants  laughing  and  exchanging  meaning  glances  with 
one  another.  It  maddened  her.  She  sat  down  posi- 
tively trembling  with  rage,  fiercely  biting  her  lips  almost 
through,  while  passionate  and  incoherent  exclamations 
every  now  and  then  escaped  from  her. 

At  length  a  rattle  of  wheels  in  the  court-yard  below 
announced  the  return  of  her  husband,  and,  looking  out, 
she  saw  him  getting  out  of  the  carriage.  At  the  sight  of 
him  her  passion  broke  out  with  fenewed  strength.  She 
would  have  it  out  with  him  at  once.  He  should  hear  the 
truth  at  last !  Many,  many  years  she  had  restrained  her- 
self, and  kept  it  all  down,  but  he  should  hear  it  now.  If 
it  came  to  a  quarrel  and  a  breach  between  them,  what 
then  ?  Could  anything  be  worse  than  the  present  state 
of  aff  lirs  ?  She  was  determined  to  return  to  London  that 
very  night.  Nothing  will  make  her  stay  !  But  he  shall 
hear  the  truth  first ! 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  that  the  carriage  should 
remain  at  the  door  till  further  orders.  Then  she  went 
across  the  hall,  up  the  corridor  that  led  to  the  library, 
and  knocked  imperiously  and  impatiently  at  the  door. 


202  SEAFORTH. 

Lord  Seaforth  entered  the  house  weary  and  heart- 
broken, despairing,  and  sore  and  sick  in  spirit. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  Godfrey's  guilt  now.  He 
would  not  meet  his  mother :  all  views  of  the  subject  met 
and  ended  in  that.  There  was  the  proof  of  his  guilt. 
All  hope  was  over.  There  remained  nothing  now  but  to 
harden  his  heart  and  cast  him  off  forever,  and  it  should 
be  done.  But  he  did  not  look  much  like  a  Nemesis  as  he 
sat  there,  cowering  over  the  fire,  holding  his  shaking 
hands  to  the  blaze,  his  lips  quivering,  and  the  proud  tears 
rising  to  his  sunken  and  weary  eyes.  It  is  the  bitterest 
moment  of  his  life, — more  bitter  even  than  when  the  love 
of  his  life  had  fled  with  his  vagabond  brother.  Hester 
had  been  the  idol  of  months,  but  Godfrey  was  the  idol 
of  years. 

Oh,  how  lonely  and  how  crushed  he  felt ! 

Ah,  Lady  Seaforth,  this  would  have  been  your  moment. 
Your  rival  gone  and  lowered  in  his  eyes,  cast  off  forever  ; 
his  heart  aching  and  sad.  Could  you  have  stolen  in  now 
gently,  just  as  his  heart  is  so  sore,  and  craved  his  pardon 
for  that  old  deception,  and  begged  him  to  condone  it  as 
an  offence  of  youth,  begged  him  to  gauge  your  love  for 
your  boys  by  his  own  love  for  his  nephew,  and  to  look 
upon  you  as  one  who  had  erred  for  the  sake  of  her  chil- 
dren, you  might  have  won  him  still. 

But  instead  there  bursts  into  his  presence  a  woman  mad 
with  fury,  a  woman  who  stands  over  him  and  glories  in 
his  grief;  who  taunts  him  with  the  way  he  has  been  taken 
in,  and  tells  him  she  always  knew  his  nephew  was  bad  and 
worthless,  and  had  said  so  from  the  very  first ;  who  tri- 
umphs over  his  misery,  and  then  heaps  upon  him  the  bit- 
terest reproaches ;  who  reviews  all  her  married  life,  and 
recapitulates  every  grievance  and  every  injury  which  she 
says  she  has  had  to  suffer  at  his  hands ;  who  accuses  him 


SEA  FORTH.  203 

of  every  sort  of  cruelty  and  neglect ;  who  tells  him  she 
will  remain  with  him  no  longer  to  be  treated  in  such  a 
way  as  this,  to  be  shut  out  alike  from  his  joys  and  his 
sorrows,  to  be  humiliated  before  the  whole  household,  and 
kept  in  such  ignorance  of  his  affairs  that  every  servant  in 
the  house  is  better  informed  than  she ;  who  lets  loose,  in 
short,  all  the  pent-up  torrents  of  years,  and,  regardless 
alike  of  his  feelings  or  his  displeasure,  allows  that  torrent  to 
have  its  full  vent,  and  to  burst  as  it  will  the  bounds  of  truth, 
respect,  and  decorum.  Self-control  is  no  more ;  habitual 
awe  and  fear  have  fled.  Alike  violent  and  intemperate  in 
speech,  manner,  and  tone,  she  gives  way  freely  to  her  feel- 
ings and  her  temper,  and — is  degraded  in  his  eyes  forever  ! 

Exhausted  at  last  by  her  own  passion,  she  comes  to  an 
end  of  her  vocabulary  of  vituperation  ;  and  she  rushes 
out  of  his  presence,  dashing  the  hot  tears  of  fury  from 
her  eyes,  as  she  goes  away  and  away  through  the  passages, 
across  the  hall,  to  the  entrance  where  the  carriage  is  still 
standing  at  the  door. 

The  presence  of  the  men-servants  restores  to  her  for  a 
moment  some  sense  of  what  is  due  to  appearances,  and 
she  enters  the  carriage  with  something  of  dignity,  and 
controls  her  voice  to  give  the  necessary  orders  before  she 
drives  out  into  the  cold  foggy  night. 

Then  she  throws  herself  back  among  the  cushions,  and 
the  carriage  rattles  out  of  the  court-yard. 

But,  as  she  drove  rapidly  away  in  the  darkness,  she  sat 
up  suddenly,  and  let  down  the  window  to  take  one  last 
look  at  the  home  she  felt  she  was  leaving  forever. 

The  stately  old  house  looked  grim  and  phantom-like  in 
the  fog  which  was  beginning  to  encircle  it.  No  lights 
gleamed  from  the  windows.  The  state  rooms  were  closed, 
the  guests'  rooms  untenanted,  her  boys'  rooms  dark  and 
empty. 


204 


SEA  FORTH. 


She  gazed  at  it  with  a  beating  heart,  hastily  reviewing 
her  life  in  it,  with  all  its  hopes,  dreams,  mortifications, 
and  disappointments. 

The  contrast  between  this  day  and  those  early  ones, 
when  she  had  been  so  gay  and  happy,  so  pleased  with  her 
new  position,  and  so  secure  of  her  boys'  prosperous  future, 
forced  itself  upon  her.  The  contrast,  too,  between  the 
gaunt,  deserted  look  of  the  mansion  now,  and  its  aspect 
in  those  days,  when  it  was  made  so  bright  for  feasting  and 
hospitality.  Where  once  each  window  had  been  a  blaze 
of  light,  now  all  was  darkness. 

One  more  hasty  glance  before  she  disappears  in  the  fog, 
never  to  return. 

Something  causes  her  to  throw  herself  hastily  back  in 
the  carriage,  and  a  sudden  sharp  pang  of  bitter  remorse 
strikes  through  her  heart,  penetrating  even  the  hard  cold 
wall  with  which  that  heart  was  encircled,  and  melting  for 
a  moment  the  ice  of  her  proud  rebellion  and  resentment 
against  her  life,  her  fate,  and  her  husband. 

Her  eye  had  fallen  for  a  moment  on  a  tiny  glimmer, 
shining  faint  and  small  in  the  darkness.  Far  away  in  one 
of  the  upper  stories  of  the  house,  a  little  light  in  the 
school-room  window  had  spoken  to  her  pathetically  of 
her  neglected  and  deserted  child  ! 


SEA  FORTH.  205 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

"NOT  WANTED." 

SHORT  work  did  Lord  Seaforth  make  of  his  wife's  con- 
cerns ;  short  work  indeed.  The  very  thought  of  her  for 
days  and  days  after  that  scene  in  the  library  was  enough 
to  make  his  lip  curl  with  the  most  ineffable  contempt  and 
disdain. 

She  shall  never  return  to  Seaforth.  She  shall  be  ban- 
ished evermore.  There  shall  be  no  formal  separation, 
no  publicity  of  any  kind.  It  shall  just  be  settled  that  for 
the  future  she  shall  make  her  home  in  London.  '  Did  she 
not  herself  propose  it  ?  So  far  as  he  could  follow  the 
course  of  the  intemperate  language  used  on  that  occasion, 
he  had  gathered  that  that  was  her  meaning.  Thus,  then, 
for  the  future  it  shall  be. 

So  that  matter  was  promptly  and  finally  settled,  and 
then  he  turned  his  back  upon  that  part  of  his  life,  and 
entered  on  a  new  stage  of  his  existence. 

Yes,  he  has  cast  off  all  the  past, — wife,  stepsons, 
nephew,  all  the  associations  of  the  last  sixteen  years, — 
and  a  new  future  is  opening  out  before  him.  A  new 
programme  is  shaping  itself  in  his  mind. 

What  can  this  new  programme  be  ? 

He  is  going,  as  Godfrey  himself  had  suggested,  to  cut 
off  the  entail,  and  to  settle  everything  on  his  daughter. 
She  will  then  be  one  of  the  greatest  heiresses  in  England  ; 
and  her  second  son  shall  inherit  the  property  and  take  the 
family  name.  He  has  even  got  a  son-in-law  in  his  eye, — 
18 


206  SEAFORTH. 

the  eldest  son  of  his  neighbor  and  acquaintance  Lord 
Ainsbro',  whose  estates  join  his  own. 

But  for  all  this  he  must  wait.  These  plans  cannot  be 
carried  out  yet.  He  must  wait  till  Godfrey  is  five-and- 
twenty,  by  which  time  Joan  will  be  past  eighteen.  His 
life  will  now  be  waiting,  waiting, — and  then  this  new 
future  and  this  fresh  programme  of  life. 

So,  still  unsubdued,  from  the  ashes  of  another  past,  his 
will,  phcenix-like,  springs  with  a  new  force.  Again  no 
thought  of  submission,  no  bowing  to  the  hand  of  God. 
As  determined  as  ever  to  carve  out  his  own  life,  to  make 
it  what  he  deems  it  should  be.  The  tide  of  time  has 
taught  him  no  lessons;  he  has  learned  nothing  from  its 
flow.  The  waves  of  life  have  but  borne  him  on  a  little 
farther  and  carried  him  up  a  little  higher  on  the  shore. 

Yet  in  this  matter,  wherein  his  love,  his  pride,  his 
trust,  and  his  ambition  have  all  alike  suffered,  he  does 
not  come  out  quite  unscathed  from  the  fight.  The  hard 
lines  on  the  face,  the  bent  figure,  and  the  snow-white  hair, 
a  certain  nervous  trembling  of  the  hands,  and  an  occa- 
sional uncertainty  of  gait,  all  testify  to  a  partial  defeat. 

And  thus  we  leave  him  for  the  present,  to  wait  till  those 
three  years  shall  have  passed  away. 

Alone,  all  alone,  in  his  empty  house,  his  deserted 
rooms,  his  silent,  echoless  halls,  the  proud  man  passes 
into  another  phase  of  his  curious  life  of  self-will  and 
failures.  All  alone,  did  I  say  ?  Yes.  Save  but  for  the 
silent  presence  in  the  rooms  above  of  his  neglected  and 
unloved  daughter,  living  out  her  young  life  all  alone  too. 

And  yet,  after  all,  all  his  hopes  are  now  centred  upon 
her.  His  new  programme  of  life,  with  all  its  dreams  and 
projects,  hangs  now  entirely  on  that  fair  young  girl, — 
the  child  who  has  borne  from  her  birth  the  brand  "  not 
wanted"  on  her  brow. 


SEAFORTIf.  207 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE  ENCHANTED  ORANGE-GROVE. 

NOT  quite  three  years  after  the  events  recounted  in  the 
last  chapter,  a  young  Englishman  might  have  been  seen 
strolling  along  the  country  which  lies  between  Nice  and 
Monaco.  Tall  and  fair,  with  an  open  countenance  and 
bright,  laughing  eyes,  the  reader  will  have  no  difficulty 
in  recognizing  Colin  Fraser,  now  a  fine-looking  young 
man  of  six-  or  seven-and-twenty. 

He  had  been  wandering  somewhat  lazily  along,  for  the 
heat  was  very  overpowering,  and  he  was  hoping  every 
moment  to  find  some  shade,  when  his  ear  was  suddenly 
caught  by  the  sound  of  voices  not  far  distant,  and  he 
stopped  short  and  listened. 

What  he  had  heard  evidently  excited  his  surprise  and 
his  interest,  for  he  at  once  left  the  dusty  road,  and  turned 
off  to  the  right  upon  a  mule-track,  which  seemed  to  him 
to  lead  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  sounds  proceeded. 
Following  this  little  path,  he  found  himself  being  led 
farther  down  into  the  valley,  till  it  entered  a  grove  of 
olives,  and  there  it  stopped.  Colin  stopped  too,  and 
looked  about  him.  He  saw  rising  above  the  trees,  close  at 
hand,  the  roof  of  a  little  chalet,  and  it  was  from  between 
the  olives  and  the  chalet  that  the  sounds  which  had  at- 
tracted him  seemed  to  come. 

He  listened  again.  No,  he  had  not  been  mistaken  : 
they  were  laughing  girls'  voices  he  had  heard, — English 
voices:  he  could  hear  them  more  plainly  now. 

After  a  moment's  thought,  he  pushed  his  way  through 


208  SEAFORTH. 

the  olives,  and,  parting  the  branches  of  two  which  grew 
rather  close  together,  and  emerging  from  their  shade,  he 
came  suddenly  upon  a  scene  which  he  never  afterwards 
forgot.  Three  lovely  English  girls,  wearing  the  pictur- 
esque hats  of  the  country,  which  protected  while  they  did 
not  hide  their  pretty  features  and  bright  complexions, 
were  sitting  in  an  orange-grove.  One  was  working,  one 
reading,  and  the  third  making  garlands  of  the  wild  flowers 
which  were  lying  all  round  her. 

Colin  was  so  taken  by  surprise,  and  so  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  the  beauty  of  the  young  girls,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  shade  and  coolness  of  their  retreat, 
upon  which  he  had  come  so  suddenly,  that  he  stood 
gazing  fixedly  without  attempting  to  move. 

Startled  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  stranger,  the 
young  girls  sprang  to  their  feet  and  looked  at  Colin  in 
astonishment.  He  recovered  himself  at  the  sight  of  their 
alarm,  and,  stepping  forward  with  a  slight  blush,  he  took 
off  his  hat,  and  apologized  for  his  intrusion. 

"I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  ladies,"  he  said  as  he 
bowed  respectfully,  "  but  I  had  no  idea  what  I  was  coming 
upon.  You  must  excuse  me  if  the  surprise  of  suddenly 
coming  on  such  a  scene  as  this,  where  I  expected  to  find 
only  washerwomen,  should  for  the  moment  have  over- 
powered me.  The  sight  of  English  ladies  at  home  in 
these  solitudes  made  a  boor  of  me  at  once,  and  I  could 
only  stare  as  the  boors  do." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  but  he  was  still  so  confused 
and  astonished  that  he  was  more  nearly  feeling  shy  than 
he  had  ever  done  in  his  life  before.  The  young  girls' 
high-bred  appearance,  and  a  sense  of  something  like 
familiarity  with  their  appearance,  a  kind  of  dream-like 
feeling  of  having  seen  them  somewhere  before, — all  this 
bewildered  and,  as  he  said  to  himself,  overpowered  him. 


SEAFORTH. 


209 


The  three  sisters  were  looking  at  him  all  this  time  with 
interest.  His  gentlemanlike  demeanor  reassured  them 
at  once,  and  his  frank  courtesy  prepossessed  them  in  his 
favor. 

Olive  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Who  are  you?"  she 
said  ;  "and  where  do  you  come  from?" 

"I  am  an  Englishman,"  he  answered,  "and  I  come 
from  Monaco." 

"  What  brings  you  here?"  was  the  next  question;  "and 
how  did  you  find  the  secret  path  to  our  chalet?" 

Colin  felt  very  much  as  if  he  were  in  fairy-land.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  was  like  some  of  the  wandering  princes 
he  had  read  of,  who,  following  some  unknown  path 
through  a  labyrinth,  had  come  upon  an  enchanted  region, 
peopled  by  fairer  beings  than  the  rough  outer  world  con- 
tained. 

"It  was  the  soft  sound  of  English  voices,"  he  an- 
swered, "which  attracted  my  attention  and  guided  me 
here. ' ' 

"  Why,  you  said  you  thought  we  were  chattering  washer- 
women," she  said,  with  a  pretty  little  toss  of  her  pretty 
head.  "  Paysannes  have  the  most  hideous  voices  in  the 
world,  just  like  a  lot  of  magpies.  Besides,  I  don't  think 
we  were  talking  at  that  moment.  Hester  was  reading  out 
aloud.  It  was  a  poor  compliment  to  her  reading,  wasn't 
it?" 

Colin  felt  rather  embarrassed,  and  to  hide  it  he  said, 
"  What  were  you  reading?  The  Pastorals,  I  am  sure.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  stepped  into  a  bit  of  pastoral  poetry  my- 
self. Perhaps  Miss  Hester  will  kindly  go  on." 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  her  name?"  said  Olive, 
astonished.  "Do  you  know  mine,  too?" 

"You  called  your  sister  by  that  name  just  now,"  he 
answered.  "  I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
1 8* 


2io  SEAFORTH. 

yours ;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  if  you  will  tell  it  to  me 
I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  My  name  is  Olive,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  called  after 
the  dear  old  trees." 

As  she  spoke,  she  twined  her  arms  round  the  branches 
of  the  one  under  which  she  was  standing,  and  looked 
more  picturesque  than  ever.  "And  the  little  one  is 
Venetia,"  she  added,  "or,  as  she  is  generally  called, 
Venice." 

"Olive  and  Venice!"  repeated  Colin :  "what  lovely 
and  romantic  names  !" 

"  Well,  you  have  not  told  us  your  name  yet,"  con- 
tinued Olive,  who  was  now  getting  quite  at  her  ease,  and 
talking  as  she  would  have  talked  to  her  father,  who  was 
almost  the  only  gentleman  she  had  ever  seen.  "And 
you  know  all  ours  now.  Neither  have  you  told  us  what 
you  are  doing  here." 

"  I  am  making  what  we  call  in  England  a  walking 
tour,"  he  answered.  "I  wanted  to  see  what  all  this 
country  was  like." 

"  But  it's  very  hot  for  walking,"  she  said  :  "  we  should 
never  think  of  walking  this  time  of  the  day." 

"  So  I  found  it,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  was 
walking  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour  up  there  on 
the  dusty  road,  and  I  was  beginning  to  long  for  a  little 
shade." 

"Oh,  now  I  guess  who  you  are!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  must  be  Mr.  Waukenphast,  the  original  of  the 
picture  in  Bradshaw.  You  needn't  tell  me  your  name 
now.  I  shall  call  you  Mr.  Waukenphast." 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  he  answered,  laughing ;  "  but 
I  am  ready  to  tell  you  anything  you  wish  to  know,  and 
to  answer  any  question  you  may  please  to  put  to  me." 

"Won't   you   sit  down,"    said    Hester's  soft   voice, 


SEA  FORTH.  211 

" before  Olive  begins  her  questions?  You  must  be  tired 
after  this  long,  hot  walk  you  speak  of." 

He  thanked  her,  and  they  all  sat  down. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Olive,  "let  us  begin.  Where  do 
you  come  from?" 

"From  Monaco,"  he  answered. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know;  but  I  mean  before  you  came  to 
Monaco." 

"Before  that  I  came  from  Berlin,  at  which  court  I 
hold  the  proud  and  lucrative  position  of  an  unpaid 
attache!" 

"  Don't  they  pay  you  anything  at  all?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Not  a  sou,"  was  the  reply.     "  Tant pis  pour  mot  /" 

"Then  I  wouldn't  be  an  attache,  I  am  sure." 

"Beggars  cannot  be  choosers,"  he  answered,  lightly, 
"and  in  these  days  we  poor  Englishmen  are  glad  to  get 
anything  we  can,  which  may  lead  to  something  better 
some  day." 

"  Oh,  then  it  will  lead  to  something,  some  day?" 

"  Some  day,  perhaps  it  may  lead  to  envoy  extraordinary ; 
but  it  will  be  very  extraordinary  if  it  does." 

"And  in  the  mean  time ?" 

"  In  the  mean  time,  I  come  to  Monaco,  and  lose  my 
money  at  rouge  et  noir,  like  a  fool  as  I  am." 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  you  had™  money,  and  were 
a  very  poor  man." 

"Ah  !  Well,  I  am  a  very  poor  man,  but  then  I  have 
always  been  brought  up  as  if  I  were  a  rich  one,  and  so  I 
make  mistakes  sometimes.  The  lessons  taught  us  in  our 
youth,  Miss  Olive,  are  very  difficult  to  unlearn,  and  I 
am  going  through  that  process  with  difficulty  and  great 
pain." 

"Before  you  came  to  Berlin,  you  lived  in  England,  I 
suppose,  did  you  not?"  asked  Hester. 


212  SEAFORTH. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  did.  But  Scotland  is  my  real 
home, — my  native  land,  as  they  say." 

"And  what  brought  you  from  Berlin  to  Monaco?" 
asked  Olive. 

"  The  ambassador  is  at  Nice  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
came  with  him,"  he  answered. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Monaco?" 

"  It's  the  loveliest  place  in  all  the  world,"  he  answered, 
"and  the  wickedest.  But  have  you  not  been  there?" 

"No,  never.     Mamma  never  will  allow  us  to  go." 

"I  think  she  is  right.  I  intend  to  get  away  from  it 
myself  as  fast  as  I  can.  I  ought  not  to  have  come,  or, 
rather,  I  ought  not  to  have  played.  However,  I  was 
soon  cured  of  it.  But,  as  I  tell  you,  I  always  forget  I 
am  a  poor  man,  and,  having  always  been  accustomed  to 
think  I  could  go  in  for  everything,  why,  in  I  go  !  And 
of  course  I  ought  to  remember  that  I  oughtn't  even  to 
buy  a  new  boot-lace  till  I'm  quite  sure  the  old  one  is 
really  worn  out." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  laughed  Olive.  "We  should 
never  think  of  such  a  thing.  Why,  we  haven't  had 
new  gowns  for  I  don't  know  how  long;  and  as  to  our 
hats !" 

She  took  off  her  broad  paysanne  hat,  and  showed  it  to 
Colin.  "Do  you  see?  it  is  quite  sunburnt,"  she  said. 
"Now  guess  how  many  years  I  have  worn  it." 

"It  couldn't  be  prettier  if  it  was  brand-new,"  said 
Colin.  "  It's  the  prettiest  hat  I  have  ever  seen." 

"And  I  am  sure,"  put  in  little  Venetia,  "it's  better 
the  hat  should  be  sunburnt  than  Olive,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  that  it  is,  indeed,"  said  Colin,  warmly.  "I 
can't  think  how  you  ladies  shield  yourselves  from  the 
effects  of  the  sun  so  successfully.  The  paysannes  are  all 
quite  burnt  brown." 


SEA  FORTH.  213 

"Mamma  is  very  particular  about  our  complexions," 
said  Olive,  simply. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Colin,  "will  you  not  introduce 
me  to  your  mother?" 

"She  has  gone  to  Nice,"  exclaimed  Olive.  "Isn't  it 
extraordinary?  She  has  not  done  such  a  thing  as  long  as 
I  can  remember.  She  won't  be  back  till  late.  So  we  are 
taking  care  of  ourselves  to-day." 

"  And,"  said  Colin,  "  if  you  will  not  think  me  inquisi- 
tive, have  you  a  father  also?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  shortly,  "but  he's  always  more  or 
less  away." 

Colin  felt  as  if  he  ought  not  to  ask  any  more  questions, 
though  he  longed  to  know  why  these  lovely  girls  were 
hidden  away  in  these  wilds,  and  what  the  history  of  the 
family  might  be. 

"Well,  ladies,"  he  said,  regretfully,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "I  must  be  going.  It  is  sad  to  leave  such  a  Para- 
dise, but  it  must  be.  I  must  return  to  Paradise  Lost,  as 
they  call  Monaco." 

"  Oh,  but  the  train  does  not  start  for  at  least  an  hour," 
exclaimed  Olive.  "You  really  must  not  go  yet !" 

"  Won't  you  have  something  to  eat  in  the  mean  while?" 
said  Hester;  "you  must  be  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  you 
will  be  glad  to  wash  your  face  and  hands  after  your  long 
dusty  walk." 

He  looked  at  them  all  for  a  moment,  and  hesitated. 
"I  don't  know  if  I  ought,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Olive. 

"There's  no  chaperon,  you  see,"  he  said. 

"No  what?"  exclaimed  Olive. 

Colin  did  not  seem  to  be  inclined  to  explain  himself, 
and,  after  a  moment's  thought,  he  accepted  the  invitation. 

They  all  walked  towards  the  chalet,  and  the  girls  took 


214  SEA  FORTH. 

him  into  their  father's  room,  which  was  deliciously  cool, 
all  paved  with  white  tiles.  All  three  hovered  about,  get- 
ting it  ready,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent.  Olive  came 
in  with  a  large  classically-shaped  pitcher  on  her  head, 
which  she  had  herself  filled  with  hot  water  in  the  little 
kitchen,  and  set  it  down  before  him.  Colin  hastened  to 
relieve  her  of  it,  exclaiming  with  horror  at  her  having 
given  herself  so  much  trouble. 

"The  water  is  too  hot,"  she  said.  "I  must  go  and 
get  some  cold."  As  she  spoke,  she  heaved  up  the  pitcher 
again. 

"Oh!  don't  you  do  it!"  exclaimed  Colin:  "please 
let  me  ring !" 

She  stood  before  him,  with  her  arm  round  the  pitcher 
on  her  shoulder,  laughing  merrily. 

"Ring!"  she  exclaimed.     "Who  for?" 

"  For  one  of  the  servants,"  he  answered.  "I  cannot 
let  you  wait  upon  me  like  this." 

"Servants!"  she  repeated,  laughing  more  than  ever. 
"  Why,  we've  only  got  one,  and  of  course  she's  getting 
your  dinner  ready." 

"You  might  be  Rebecca  at  the  well,"  he  said,  in 
answer.  "I  almost  expect  to  hear  you  say,  'Drink,  my 
lord  !'  " — But  Olive  was  already  out  of  hearing  of  these 
observations. 

The  meal  was  very  simple,  but  tastefully  set  upon  the 
table.  Colin  found  he  was  expected  to  eat  alone,  as  the 
girls  declared  their  intention  of  awaiting  their  mother's 
return  from  Nice.  They  hovered  round  him,  providing 
for  his  wants,  and  would  not  allow  him  to  get  a  single 
thing  for  himself,  in  spite  of  his  protestations. 

"  No  !"  said  Olive,  decidedly,  "  when  we  come  to  see 
you,  you  shall  wait  upon  us ;  but  now  you  are  eating  of 
our  salt,  and  we  must  wait  upon  you." 


SEA  FORTH.  215 

Colin  was  indeed  sorry  when  at  last  it  was  decided  he 
must  start  if  he  wished  to  be  in  time  for  the  train. 

"But  you'll  come  and  see  us  again,"  said  Olive,  im- 
ploringly, as  she  said  "  Good-by,"  "  and  very  soon." 

"That  I  will,"  he  answered,  "and  you  must  introduce 
me  to  your  mother." 

The  three  girls  came  out  on  the  balcony  to  see  him  go, 
and  leaned  over  the  railings,  waving  their  hands  to  him 
till  he  was  almost  out  of  sight. 

Olive  remained  there  the  longest,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  as  she  strained  her  gaze  after  his  departing 
figure.  When  she  could  no  longer  see  him,  she  sighed. 
Everything,  somehow,  seemed  different  from  what  it  had 
been  in  the  morning,  and  she  had  lost  all  interest  in  the 
book  Hester  was  reading. 

Meanwhile,  Colin,  after  taking  one  last  look  at  the 
figure  on  the  balcony,  sighed  also.  And  as  he  pursued 
his  way  back  to  Paradise  Lost,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  turning 
his  back  on  Paradise  Regained. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

LORD   SEAFORTH   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER. 

THE  rolling  of  the  wheels  of  Time  had  done  but  little 
to  better  Joan's  position.  Little  as  she  had  ever  seen  of 
her  mother  and  half-brothers,  their  total  disappearance 
from  the  scene,  and  the  disappearance  with  them  of  all 
life  and  society  and  movement  from  the  house  and  place, 
rendered  everything  more  dull  and  dreary  than  ever. 


216  SEAFORTH. 

The  only  change,  as  regarded  herself,  was  the  fact  of  being 
brought  more  in  contact  with  her  father.  For  Lord  Sea- 
forth,  urged  by  his  rigid  sense  of  duty,  had,  very  soon 
after  his  wife's  departure,  sent  up  a  message  to  the  school- 
room, that  for  the  future  his  daughter  and  her  governess 
would  dine  with  him.  But  that  is  some  time  ago.  Joan 
is  now  past  eighteen.  Her  governess  has  been  gone  a 
long  while.  Unable  to  bear  the  dulness  of  the  life,  she 
had  returned  to  her  friends  abroad ;  and  her  place  had 
not  been  filled  up. 

Joan  is  now  a  good  deal  with  her  father, — that  is  to  say, 
in  his  presence;  otherwise  they  were  miles  apart,  and 
very  little  conversation  ever  passed  between  them. 

Still,  Lord  Seaforth's  feelings  towards  his  daughter  are 
very  much  warmer  than  they  used  to  be.  The  very  fact 
of  her  being  his  heir  at  once  created  in  his  breast  an 
interest  in  her  which  he  had  never  felt  before.  He  gives 
her  a  good  deal  of  power  in  the  place,  and  as  much  money 
as  she  wishes  for,  and  is  ready  to  further  any  schemes  for 
good  that  she  may  wish  to  promote.  She  has  made  her- 
self a  home  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor ;  and  wherever  there 
is  trouble  there  is  Joan  ever  at  hand  to  help,  more  es- 
pecially if  a  little  invalid  or  a  lonely  child  be  in  ques- 
tion. 

But  it  is  a  lonely,  lonely  life  for  a  young  girl ;  her  own 
heart  is  void  and  empty,  and  it  has  no  one  on  whom  its 
treasures  of  affection  may  be  poured.  Hers  are  golden 
memories,  but  no  present  joys.  She  lives  still  on  the 
memory  of  those  sunny  days  when  love  and  sympathy 
were  showered  upon  her;  and,  except  them,  all  is  blank 
in  her  life,  and  succeeding  events  are  shrouded  in  a  deep 
and  impenetrable  mystery. 

Let  us  look  in  upon  the  father  and  daughter,  sitting  in 
the  library  to-night.  It  wants  just  about  three  months  to 


SEA  FOR  Til.  217 

the  day  for  which  Lord  Seaforth  has  been  waiting  so  long ; 
three  months  to  the  26th  of  January,  Godfrey's  twenty- 
fifth  birthday. 

Lord  Seaforth  is  sitting  in  his  usual  chair,  gazing  into 
the  fire.  His  daughter  is  bending  over  her  book,  under 
the  soft  light  of  a  reading-lamp,  which  shines  on  her  small 
well-shaped  head,  with  its  fair  rippling  hair.  A  very 
lovely  girl  has  the  lonely  child  become.  Even  her  father's 
eyes  are  not  closed  to  his  daughter's  beauty,  and  there  is 
not  a  man  or  a  boy  about  the  place  who  is  not  in  love  with 
little  Joan. 

The  usual  silence  is  reigning  in  the  room.  It  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  a  little  cough  from  Lord  Seaforth. 
He  spoke  so  seldom  that  his  voice  got  husky,  and  no 
•sound  would  come  unless  he  first  prepared  the  way.  The 
little  cough  was  a  sign  that  he  was  going  to  speak,  and  at 
the  sound  his  daughter  raised  her  eyes  from  her  book,  and 
waited  to  hear  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"Joan." 

"Yes,  father." 

"  How  old  are  you  now?" 

"I  was  eighteen  last  month." 

"I  thought  you  must  be  nearly  that  age.  You  are 
growing  up  now,  Joan." 

"Yes,  father." 

"You  ought  to  be  seeing  something  of  society,  like 
others  of  your  age.  This  is  a  gloomy  house,  and  a 
gloomy  life  for  a  young  girl ;  but  that  cannot  be  altered. 
You  must  seek  change  and  society  elsewhere." 

Here  he  paused,  and  took  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket. 

"  I  have  an  invitation  for  you  here  from  my  friends 

Lord  and  Lady  Ainsbro',  inviting  you  to  pass  a  few  days 

with  them  next  week.     Lady  Ainsbro'  says  she  has  no 

particular  inducements  to  offer  you  in  the  shape  of  amuse- 

K  19 


2l8  SEA  FORTH. 

ments,  but  she  thinks  you  will  not  perhaps  mind  that. 
She  has  at  present  with  her  one  of  her  married  daughters, 
her  eldest  son,  and  some  of  her  younger  children.  I  have 
a  great  opinion  of  Lady  Ainsbro'.  She  has  brought  up 
her  sons  and  daughters  well;  and  her  eldest  son  is  a 
particularly  worthy  and  promising  young  man." 

Another  pause. 

"I  have  accepted  the  invitation,  and  it  only  remains 
for  you  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements.  The  dis- 
tance is  five-and-twenty  miles,  across  country.  The  rail- 
way will  not  assist  you.  I  shall,  therefore,  send  you  and 
your  maid  in  the  carriage  the  whole  way." 

Lord  Seaforth  then  returned  the  letter  to  his  pocket, 
and  said  nothing  further. 

Joan  did  not  resume  her  book.  Her  thoughts  turned 
with  pleasure  to  the  change.  The  idea  of  a  house  with 
young  people  and  little  children  in  it  was  very  pleasant, 
and  she  dimly  remembered  having  once  met  Lady  Ains- 
bro' on  the  stairs  when  she  had  been  staying  at  Seaforth, 
and  that  she  had  stopped  her  and  spoken  to  her  very 
kindly. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

JOAN'S   FIRST   VISIT   FROM   HOME. 

LADY  AINSBRO'S  family  consisted  of  some  married 
daughters,  a  grown-up  son,  and  some  younger  children. 
She  had  originally  intended  Godfrey  for  one  of  those 
daughters,  but,  events  having  put  that  out  of  the  question, 
they  had  married  elsewhere ;  and  now  her  favorite  plan 
was  that  her  son  should  marry  Lord  Seaforth's  daughter 


SEA  FORTH.  219 

and  unite  the  two  properties.  She  had  found  that  she 
and  Lord  Seaforth  were  fully  agreed  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
such  an  arrangement,  and  Joan's  visit  to  Ainsbro'  was  the 
preliminary  step  to  its  accomplishment. 

She  had  asked  no  one  to  meet  her.  She  knew  what  a 
solitary  life  the  girl  led,  and  thought  she  would  be  more 
at  ease  in  a  home  circle  than  with  a  regular  party.  She 
was  a  kind,  motherly  woman,  and  had  always  felt  much 
for  the  forlorn  child ;  but  the  great  distance  between  the 
two  houses,  unconnected  as  they  were  by  any  railway,  had 
prevented  her  being  able  to  do  anything  for  her. 

At  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  long 
drive  of  twenty-five  miles,  Joan  arrived  at  the  gates  of 
Ainsbro'  Park.  She  felt  rather  nervous,  and  very  uncer- 
tain how  she  should  comport  herself  under  such  new  cir- 
cumstances. She  was  reassured  directly  by  Lady  Ainsbro's 
kind,  motherly  greeting.  She  received  her  alone  in  the 
drawing-room,  made  her  sit  down  by  the  fire  to  warm 
herself  after  her  cold  drive,  and  gave  her  some  tea,  talk- 
ing kindly  to  her  all  the  time.  Lord  Ainsbro'  and  her  son, 
she  said,  were  out  shooting,  but  would  be  back  ere  long, 
and  the  children  would  be  down  directly.  She  hoped 
Joan  would  not  mind  a  family  party.  Her  daughter,  who 
had  been  with  her,  she  was  sorry  to  say,  had  been  obliged 
to  return  home,  on  account  of  the  illness  of  her  baby. 

As  Joan  sat  there  drinking  her  tea,  listening  to  the 
kind  voice,  and  receiving  all  the  motherly  attentions  to 
which  she  was  so  unaccustomed,  a  feeling  of  warmth  and 
comfort  stole  into  her  heart,  and  she  felt  that  she  would 
be  very  happy  at  Ainsbro'. 

"Are  the  children  quite  little?"  she  inquired,  looking 
up  eagerly. 

"Yes,  two  of  them  are  nursery  children  still,  a  boy 
and  a  girl,  Marion  and  Bertie.  They  are  just  at  the  right 


220  SEA  FORTH. 

age,"  she  added,  smiling, — "independent  of  the  nursery, 
and  not  yet  in  the  school-room  :  so  I  have  them  with  me 
nearly  all  day,  and  a  most  amusing  little  pair  they  are. 
Will  you  come  up  to  your  room  before  they  come  down  ? 
They  will  never  let  you  go  after.  They  are  so  fond  of 
society !" 

Joan  followed  Lady  Ainsbro'  to  her  bedroom,  and  took 
off  her  things. 

When  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room  the  children 
were  already  there,  and  they  ran  forward  and  greeted 
Joan  with  great  pleasure.  Joan  sat  down  and  took  the 
little  boy  in  her  lap.  Her  love  for  children  was  a  passion 
which  as  yet  had  been  confined  to  the  children  of  the 
poor.  No  one  could  guess  what  it  was  to  the  poor  forlorn 
child  to  wind  her  arms  round  the  little  fellow,  and  to 
bury  her  face  in  his  soft  hair. 

The  attraction  was  mutual.  Bertie  was  evidently  greatly 
smitten.  He  took  a  prolonged  look  at  her,  and  then 
settled  himself  comfortably  astride  on  her  knee,  and 
asked  her  to  tell  him  a  story  or  to  show  him  some  pic- 
tures. 

"You  mustn't  tell  Bertie  anything  sad,"  whispered 
little  Marion,  "  because  it  makes  him  so  unhappy.  You 
mustn't  let  anybody  die,  or  be  cruel,  or  else  he'll  begin 
to  cry.  And  nobody  must  be  unkind,  or  ill,  or  unhappy." 

As  there  seemed  so  many  rocks  ahead  in  the  matter  of 
story-telling,  Joan  sheltered  herself  from  possible  dangers 
by  saying  she  thought  she  would  rather  show  them  some 
pictures.  Marion  therefore  fetched  a  large  volume  of 
"Punch,"  and  placed  it  on  her  knee.  "But  don't  let 
Bertie  see  any  wild  beasts,"  she  whispered ;  "no  lions, 
or  wolves,  or  bears,  because  he  talks  about  them  at  night, 
and  thinks  they're  under  his  bed,  or  peeping  at  him  from 
behind  the  curtain." 


SEA  FORTH.  221 

"Punch"  appeared  to  Joan  to  be  a  volume  likely  to 
be  free  from  all  terrors,  and  the  entertainment  began. 
But  they  came  at  once  upon  the  "British  Lion"  in  one 
of  the  big  political  cartoons ;  and  the  peace  of  the  even- 
ing seemed  seriously  threatened.  Joan  hastily  turned 
over  several  pages,  and  fell  foul  of  a  skeleton,  wrapped 
in  a  sheet,  rowing  a  boat.  This  being  at  present  an  un- 
known danger,  Bertie  was  at  first  considerably  interested, 
and  it  led  to  a  conversation  on  bones ;  but  on  a  closer 
inspection  of  the  illustration  he  suddenly  shuddered,  and, 
covering  it  up  with  his  hands,  said,  "Better  not  look  at 
it  any  more." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Marion  to  Joan,  in  an  awe- 
struck whisper,  "I  once  heard  somebody  say  there  was 
a  skeleton  in  the  cupboard.  I  wonder,"  she  added,  look- 
ing rather  fearfully  round  the  room,  "  I  wonder  which 
cupboard  it's  in  !" 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  Bertie,  his  blue  eyes  dilating  with 
fright,  "I  hope  it's  not  in  the  nursery  cupboard  !" 

"No,  no,  darlings,"  said  Joan,  soothingly,  "I  am 
quite  sure  there  is  no  skeleton  in  this  house." 

"Is  there  one  in  yours?"  asked  Marion. 

Joan  blushed  deeply.  She  saw  Lady  Ainsbro'  was 
listening  with  some  curiosity,  and  her  relief  was  great 
when  the  entrance  of  Lord  Ainsbro'  and  his  son  inter- 
rupted the  conversation  and  diverted  the  children's 
attention. 

Lord  Ainsbro'  received  her  very  kindly ;  and,  after  a 
few  words  of  inquiry  after  her  father,  etc.,  he  sat  down 
by  the  fire  and  took  up  the  newspaper. 

Edward  Manners  was  a  tall,  nice-looking  young  man  of 
about  six-and-twenty.     Lady  Ainsbro'  came  forward  and 
introduced  him,  and  he  sat  down  by  Joan's  side  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her. 
19* 


222  SEA  FORTH. 

"The  Mayor  of  York  is  dead,"  said  Lord  Ainsbro'  to 
his  wife,  presently.  Lady  Ainsbro'  expressed  surprise 
and  regret,  and  a  little  conversation  followed  on  the 
manner  of  his  death,  and  his  probable  successor. 

Joan  suddenly  discovered  that  Bertie  was  weeping. 

"Oh!  what  is  the  matter  with  him?"  she  exclaimed 
to  Mr.  Manners;  "poor  little  fellow  !  He  is  crying." 

"What's  the  matter,  old  fellow?"  inquired  Mr. 
Manners,  raising  his  little  brother  in  his  arms. 

"I  wish  the  Mayor  of  York  hadn't  died,  poor  thing," 
sobbed  Bertie ;  "  I  don't  want  him  to  be  dead  at  all." 

His  brother  hastily  explained  to  him  that  the  late  mayor 
had  gone  to  heaven,  where  he  would  be  so  much  happier 
than  he  could  be  at  York.  Bertie  allowed  himself  to  be 
consoled  by  this  reflection,  observing,  mournfully,  "  So 
should  /  be  much  happier  in  heaven  than  I  am  here." 

"  Come  and  play  at  cheeses,"  said  Marion. 

It  was  a  new  game,  and  for  the  present,  while  the 
novelty  lasted,  it  was  in  her  eyes  the  panacea  for  all  ills. 
Bertie  entered  at  once  into  the  spirit  of  the  game,  and 
twisted  round  till  he  got  giddy  and  nearly  fell  over. 

"  Don't !"  he  called  out  to  Joan,  who  was  sitting  very 
quiet  in  her  big  arm-chair,  "  don't  you  go  round  when  I 
do  this !" 

Lady  Ainsbro'  now  stopped  the  game,  and  took  the 
children  off  to  bed. 

The  dinner  passed  off  pleasantly.  They  were  all  so 
kind  that  Joan  could  not  but  feel  at  her  ease.  In  the 
evening  Edward  Manners  played  the  violin  to  his  mother's 
accompaniment,  and  Joan  listened,  while  Lord  Ainsbro' 
slumbered  peacefully  in  his  chair.  It  was  all  very  home- 
like and  comfortable,  and  she  went  to  bed  feeling  very 
much  more  what  is  called  "at  home"  at  Ainsbro'  than 
ever  she  had  felt  at  Seaforth. 


SEAFORTH.  223 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  In  the  morning  they  all 
went  to  church,  and  in  the  afternoon  they  took  a  long 
walk.  Lord  and  Lady  Ainsbro'  and  the  children  went 
on  in  front,  and  Joan  and  Edward  Manners  walked 
behind. 

"The  young  people  are  getting  on  famously,"  said 
Lady  Ainsbro',  with  a  smile,  to  her  husband,  in  the 
course  of  the  walk.  "  What  a  lovely  little  thing  she  is  !'" 

"Wonderful  eyes,"  he  observed;  "I  never  saw  any 
with  so  deep  and  so  varying  an  expression.  She  looks 
very  sad,  poor  child.  I  fancy  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
character  hidden  under  a  very  gentle  exterior." 

"I  don't  believe  she  knows  the  least  how  pretty  she 
is,"  added  Lady  Ainsbro',  "she  seems  so  unconscious, 
and  so  free  from  any  sort  of  vanity.  Altogether,  I  think, 
she  is  charming." 

When,  about  an  hour  later,  they  reached  the  house  in 
time  for  the  children's  tea,  Lady  Ainsbro'  noticed,  with 
great  satisfaction,  that  her  son  and  his  companion  were 
still  far  behind. 

When  the  children  came  down  at  six  o'clock,  Lady 
Ainsbro'  read  them  "  Mamma's  Bible  Stories."  Joan 
was  sitting  near,  with  her  book  in  her  lap,  and  she  did 
not  hear  much  at  first ;  but  when  Lady  Ainsbro'  put 
down  the  book,  and  began  to  ask  a  few  questions,  she 
could  not  help  listening  to  the  children's  answers. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro',  "  there  was 
no  world.  All  was  dark  and  empty.  There  was  no  such 
little  boy  or  girl  as  you,  nor " 

"  No,"  set  off  Marion,  "  nor  no  such  a  woman  as  you, 
nor  no  such  a  nurse  as  Nana,  nor  no  such  a  footman  as 
Charles,  nor  no " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro'.  "  No,  there  was 
no  one  in  the  world,  and  nothing.  Now,  what  was  the 


224  SEAFORTH. 

first  thing  God  made?  Marion,  you  must  let  Bertie 
answer  this." 

"Adam  and  Eve,"  said  Bertie,  promptly. 

"  Oh,  no,  Bertie,"  whispered  Marion  ;  "  they'd  have 
been  all  in  the  dark,  you  know." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro',  "you  tell  me." 

"Light,"  said  Marion;  "sun,  moon " 

"  Let  Bertie  go  on.    What  other  kind  of  light,  Bertie  ?' ' 

"Gas,"  said  Bertie. 

"  Oh,  no,  Bertie,"  said  his  sister  :  "  God  doesn't  make 
the  gas.  Smith  makes  the  gas/' 

"Tell  him,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro'. 

"  Stars,"  they  both  said  together. 

"God  could  make  the  gas,  if  he  liked,"  argued  Bertie, 
"  for  he  can  do  everything,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  Marion,  "he  can  write  with  his  fingers, 
like  when  he  wrote  the  Commandments  on  the  tables  of 
stone." 

"  I  wish  I  could  write  with  my  fingers,"  said  Bertie, 
mournfully,  adding,  after  a  moment's  deep  and  interested 
thought,  "Of  course,  God's  got  plenty  of  pens,  only  he 
likes  better  writing  with  his  fingers." 

Lady  Ainsbro'  now  dropped  the  questioning  form,  and 
read  aloud  to  them  a  little  till  the  gong  sounded,  and 
Bertie  dissolved  in  tears  and  complained  the  day  was  so 
short. 

His  brother  picked  him  up  to  carry  him  up-stairs,  say- 
ing, "Well,  7  can't  make  the  day  longer,  you  know." 

"But  God  can,"  urged  Bertie. 

"I  want  you  to  carry  me  up,"  he  said,  wriggling  out 
of  his  brother's  arms  and  throwing  himself  on  Joan. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  said  Edward  ;  "  you're  much  too  big  and 
heavy." 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  !"  said  Joan. 


SEA  FORTH. 


22$ 


The  touch  of  Bertie's  caressing  arms  was  such  joy  to 
her.  She  could  not  explain  the  happiness  the  fancy  he 
had  taken  to  her  seemed  to  give  her.  So  she  wound  her 
arms  lovingly  round  him,  and  carried  him  up,  the  little 
fellow  giving  her  a  quiet  kiss  every  now  and  then,  and 
patting  her  face  with  his  fat  little  hands. 

"  I  believe  you  think  I'm  a  little  girl,"  she  said,  smiling 
down  upon  him. 

"So  you  are,  a  kind  of  big  little  girl,"  he  answered; 
" you're  not  quite  a  lady." 

"  Not  quite  a  lady  !"  repeated  Joan, 

"  No,  not  quite.  You're  a  sort  of  '  playing  lady,'  you 
know.  Have  you  got  a  mamma?" 

"No,"  said  Joan,  softly. 

"  No  mamma  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Did  you  never  have 
one?" 

A  look  of  great  pain  passed  over  the  girl's  face,  and 
her  forlorn  heart  answered,  "  Never  !" 

"Is  she  quite  dead?"  said  Bertie,  in  an  awe-struck 
whisper. 

Joan  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  wish  she  hadn't  died,  poor  thing  !"  said  the  tender- 
hearted child,  half  crying. 

Joan,  remembering  his  grief  of  yesterday,  and  the  way 
he  had  then  been  consoled,  whispered  that  every  one  was 
much  happier  in  heaven. 

Bertie  seemed  comforted,  but  thoughtful. 

"  It  was  a  long  way  to  go,"  he  said,  looking  up  to  the 
skylight  over  the  staircase,  "all  the  way  to  the  sky.  Did 
she  go  by  the  wailwoad  ?" 

"  How  silly  you  are,  Bertie  !"  said  the  superior  Marion, 
who  was  following  close  behind.  "  Don't  you  know  that 
angels  come  and  carry  us  to  heaven  ?" 

"Suppose  they  should  drop  us!"  said  Bertie;  but 
K* 


226  SEAFORTH. 

Marion  treated  the  remark  with  the  contempt  she  con- 
sidered it  deserved. 

"If  /were  in  heaven,*'  said  the  little  boy,  addressing 
himself  again  to  Joan,  "  I  would  like  sometimes  to  come 
down  and  see  mamma.  Do  you  think  God  would  let 
me?  I  could,  you  know,"  he  went  on  meditatively, 
"give  God  the  direction,  Ainsbro'  Park, — Langdale, — 
Yorkshire." 

"You'd  be  too  happy  to  want  to  come,"  said  Joan, 
softly. 

"  Would  God  read  me  '  Mamma's  Bible  Stories'  ?"  was 
the  next  question.  "  Does  he  read  them  to  hisself  of  a 
Sunday  evening,  do  you  think?" 

And  as  Joan  hesitated,  he  added,  eagerly,  "  He  does 
everything,  you  know  !" 

Happily  for  Joan,  the  arrival  at  the  nursery  door  took 
away  the  necessity  of  providing  an  answer.  She  deposited 
her  little  burden  on  the  floor,  and,  kissing  him  fondly, 
wished  him  good-night. 

"Well,  Edward,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro'  to  her  son 
that  evening,  "and  how  are  you  getting  on  with  Lady 
Joan?" 

Edward  Manners  smiled,  and  slightly  shook  his  head. 

"  She  is  much  more  in  love  with  little  Bertie  than  ever 
she  will  be  with  me  !"  he  answered. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  "you  cannot 
expect  everything  to  come  in  a  day.  Why,  how  long 
have  you  known  her?  You  really  mustn't  be  so  down- 
hearted. Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady." 

"  I  am  not  down-hearted,  mother,"  answered  the  young 
man.  "  Lady  Joan  and  I  are  great  friends.  I  only  mean 
that  she  will  never  care  for  me  in  that  way.  I  am  quite 
sure  of  that." 

"Tell  me  why,"  said  Lady  Ainsbro'. 


SEA  FORTH. 


227 


"Because,"  he  answered  ("but  this  is  quite  between 
you  and  me,  and  must  not  go  any  further),  because  I 
have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  she  is  in  love  with  somebody 
else." 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "  The  girl  has 
been  immured  all  her  life  at  Seaforth,  like  a  nun  in  a  con- 
vent. She  has  never  seen  any  one  since  she  grew  up. 
Whom  could she  be  in  love  with?" 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Edward  Manners,  "I  may  be  mis- 
taken, and  I  can't  undertake  to  mention  names.  But  you 
mark  my  words,  mother,  Lady  Joan  will  never  be  in  love 
with  me  /' ' 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

THE   ASSIZES. 

"  WE  can  offer  you  something  in  the  shape  of  dissipa- 
tion, to-day,"  said  Lord  Ainsbro'  to  Joan,  at  breakfast. 
"The  assizes  are  going  on  at  York,  and,  if  you  would 
care  to  go,  Lady  Ainsbro'  and  my  son  will  be  delighted 
to  take  you.  I  wish  I  could  go  myself;  but  it  is  one  of 
my  busy  days  at  home." 

Joan  expressed  her  readiness ;  and  Lord  Ainsbro'  added, 
"It  is  very  interesting  sometimes,  and  I  believe  there  are 
one  or  two  important  cases  to  be  tried  this  year." 

Soon  after  breakfast,  therefore,  the  party  started,  and 
reached  York  in  about  an  hour. 

They  were  given  seats  not  far  from  the  judge,  and  Joan 
was  placed  with  Edward  Manners  on  one  side  and  Lady 
Ainsbro'  on  the  other. 

A  case  was  going  on  when  they  entered  ;  and  soon  after 


228  SEAFORTH. 

they  had  settled  themselves,  the  counsel  for  the  defence 
rose,  and  addressed  the  jury  on  behalf  of  his  client.  But 
he  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  a  strange  and  bewilder- 
ing feeling  came  over  little  Joan.  As  music,  without  our 
actually  listening  to  it,  note  for  note,  brings  over  us  a 
rush  of  thoughts  and  associations,  so  did  the  voice  and 
the  words  which  now  fell  upon  her  ear  affect  her.  Some- 
thing they  recalled  to  her, — some  memory,  she  knew  not 
what.  Colorless  she  sat,  with  her  lips  apart,  wondering 
what  it  could  be.  Somewhere,  surely,  some  time,  she  had 
looked  down  upon  some  such  scene  and  been  swayed  by 
the  rush  of  words  like  these.  Some  time  or  other,  sitting 
entranced  and  excited,  she  had  been  carried  away  on 
the  wings  of  like  intense  and  forcible  language,  while 
her  ear  had  been  charmed  by  the  like  beauty  of  inton- 
ation ! 

In  vain  she  strove  to  catch  that  faint  memory,  that 
something  lying  in  the  past,  of  which  she  was  being  now 
reminded.  She  strained  after  it  with  all  her  might,  with- 
out knowing  what  it  was  she  was  trying  to  remember, 
but  with  a  strong  conviction  that,  could  it  only  become 
clear  to  her,  it  would  bring  some  great  joy  in  its  train. 
Sometimes  she  thought  she  had  caught  hold  of  it;  but 
it  seemed  always  to  slip  away  again,  and  to  elude  her 
grasp. 

Gazing  down  upon  the  upturned  faces,  and  seeing  in 
their  expressions  how  the  speaker  swayed  them  at  his  will, 
came  the  memory  of  other  upturned  faces,  swayed  in  like 
manner  too. 

Something  told  her  that  with  the  applause  which  would 
follow  the  close  of  the  speech,  all  would  become  cle.ir  in 
her  mind. 

The  speaker  was  drawing  to  an  end  of  his  defence  in  a 
forcible  peroration  ;  and  she  forced  herself  to  listen  to 


SEAFORTH.  229 

the  grand  though  simple  language  which  was  falling  on 
her  ear.  He  ceased  rather  suddenly  ;  but  his  words, 
powerful  and  pleading,  rang  in  her  ear  still.  An  irre- 
pressible murmur  of  admiration  sounded  through  the 
court.  That  was  not  the  murmur  she  had  expected. 
What  was  it  she  had  thought  to  hear  ? 

Echoing  back  from  the  years  that  were  gone,  it  came 
suddenly  to  her  that  what  she  had  expected  was,  "  Bravo ! 
Mr.  Seaforth  !"  "Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Seaforth  !"  and 
in  an  instant  all  was  clear  to  her.  Yes  !  It  was  Godfrey  ! 
It  was  Godfrey  himself  who,  in  the  disguising  wig  and 
gown,  was  down  there  in  front  of  her. 

As  in  a  dream  she  heard  the  voices  round  her  comment- 
ing on  the  speaking,  and  asking  the  young  barrister's 
name.  And  as  in  a  dream,  when  Lady  Ainsbro'  leaned 
across  her  to  beg  her  son  to  go  and  find  out  who  he  was, 
Joan  turned  to  her  very  quietly,  and  said,  "There  is- no 
need  to  ask  :  I  can  tell  you.  It  is  Godfrey, — Godfrey 
Seaforth  !" 

The  crowd  at  the  doors  was  very  great  at  the  end  of 
the  day,  when  every  one  dispersed.  The  Ainsbro'  car- 
riage was  got  up  with  some  difficulty.  Joan  was  hardly 
conscious  of  the  crowd,  hardly  conscious  of  anything,  as 
she  passed  along  on  the  arm  of  Edward  Manners  and 
got  into  the  carriage.  But  as  she  drove  away,  she  sud- 
denly sat  up  with  a  start,  and,  leaning  forward  eagerly, 
gazed  out  of  the  carriage-window,  at  the  same  moment 
almost  involuntarily  putting  up  her  little  white  handker- 
chief. 

The  young  barrister,  who,  still  wearing  his  wig  and 
gown,  was  leaning  against  the  door,  watching  the  crowds 
disperse,  started  violently  also.  He  threw  up  his  hands, 
and  started  forward,  but  restrained  himself  with  an  evident 


230  SEA  FORTH. 

effort,  from  the  impulse  to  follow  the  carriage.  Instead, 
he  went  up  to  one  of  the  employes,  and,  pointing  to  it, 
made  some  inquiries.  Then,  hastily  stepping  out  into  the 
street,  he  strained  his  longing  gaze  after  it  until  it  was 
quite  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

THE   DAISIES'    MISTAKE. 

JOAN  woke  the  morning  after  the  assizes  to  the  vague 
feeling  that  something  joyful  had  occurred,  and  that 
something  disagreeable  was  pending.  The  first  recollec- 
tion soon  returned  in  a  tumult  of  tremulous  excitement, 
quickly  followed  by  the  second, — by  the  cold  blank  feel- 
ing that  her  visit  to  Ainsbro'  was  concluded,  and  that  she 
was  to  return  to  Seaforth  to-day. 

On  descending  to  breakfast,  she  was  greeted  with  the 
news  that  her  father's  horses  had  met  with  a  slight  acci- 
dent on  the  way,  and  that  they  could  not  possibly  do  the 
long  drive  till  they  had  had  a  day  and  a  night's  rest. 
One  of  them  was  a  little  lame.  Joan  must  therefore  posi- 
tively remain  at  Ainsbro'  till  to-morrow,  and  a  telegram 
to  that  effect  was  to  be  dispatched  to  Lord  Seaforth  at 
once. 

To  Joan  the  respite  was  like  the  answer  to  a  prayer. 
To  remain  in  Godfrey's  near  vicinity  another  twenty-four 
hours  !  To  have  the  wild  hope  still  that  somehow  or 
other  he  may  try  to  see  her !  It  was  almost  too  good 
to  be  true. 

It  was  most  unfortunate,  said  Lady  Ainsbro',  regretfully, 


SEAFORTH.  231 

that  she  and  her  husband  and  son  should  be  engaged  to  a 
shooting-party  which  could  not  be  postponed ;  but  Joan 
should  be  put  under  the  charge  of  the  children,  who 
would  prevent  her  feeling  dull. 

Lord  and  Lady  Ainsbro'  and  Mr.  Manners  took  a  very 
kind  leave  of  Joan,  and  Lady  Ainsbro'  said  she  hoped 
she  would  make  what  use  she  liked  of  the  children  as 
companions.  She  might  keep  them  to  sit  with  her  at 
dinner,  and  do  just  as  she  liked  with  them.  Joan  felt 
very  thankful  for  this  permission  as  the  hours  wore  on. 
She  was  so  restless  and  excited  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  be  alone,  and  she  could  not  read,  or  occupy  herself  in 
any  way.  The  children's  unconscious  conversation  was 
the  greatest  relief  to  her,  and  helped  her  to  get  through 
the  day.  She  found  herself  starting  at  every  sound, — 
at  the  ringing  of  every  bell,  the  opening  or  shutting  of 
every  door,  the  sound  in  the  road  of  any  passing  vehicle, 
or  the  footstep  of  any  one  in  the  garden. 

Towards  evening  these  excited  feelings  settled  down 
into  deep  blank  disappointment.  Hope  ebbed  away,  and 
when  the  sound  of  the  dressing-gong  told  her  night  had 
really  come,  it  left  her  altogether.  She  felt  now  that  the 
only  thing  was  to  put  these  thoughts  away  entirely,  and 
resolutely  to  turn  her  mind  to  something  else.  She  there- 
fore told  the  children  they  might  sit  up  to  dinner  with 
her.  She  could  not  bear  to  let  them  go  out  of  her  sight 
for  an  instant. 

Marion  and  Bertie  were  delighted  with  this  arrange- 
ment, and  hurried  into  the  dining-room  to  make  sure 
places  had  been  laid  for  them.  Joan  soon  found  her 
attention  was  likely  to  be  directed  from  her  own  affairs. 
They  sat  at  dinner,  one  on  each  side  of  her,  discoursing 
on  various  subjects  connected  with  the  nurses  and  house- 
hold, in  the  presence  of  three  men-servants.  The  first 


232  SEAFORTH. 

piece  of  news  was  that  Nana  was  soon  going  for  a  holiday 
to  see  her  mother.  Joan,  whose  ideas  of  nurses  were  a 
great  deal  formed  by  the  mention  of  one  in  "  Home  they 
brought  her  warrior  dead,"  asked  if  Nana's  mother  was 
not  a  very  old  woman.  But  here  she  found  she  was  quite 
mistaken.  Nana's  mother,  she  discovered  from  Bertie's 
answer,  was  not  at  all  old  ;  in  fact,  she  was  not  as  old  as 
Nana;  or,  at  most,  there  was  only  a  difference  of  two 
years  between  them. 

The  conversation  next  turned  upon  hair-dressing.  Ber- 
tie patted  and  smoothed  Joan's  hair,  and  said  how  soft 
and  curly  it  was;  while  Marion  made  a  minute  examina- 
tion of  the  thick  plaits  at  the  back.  Then  she  came 
round  to  Joan's  side,  just  as  the  butler  was  in  the  act  of 
pouring  out  some  claret,  and  said,  earnestly,  gazing  up 
into  her  face,  "When  you  take  down  your  hair  at  night, 
does  it  come  right  off,  like  mamma's,  or  does  it  stick  to 
your  head,  like  mine?" 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  pause  after  this  question  had 
been  answered,  and  then  Marion  asked  Joan  if  she  was 
tired. 

"No,  darling,"  answered  Joan.     "Why?" 

"  Oh,  only  because  mamma  said  you  were  like  Mrs. 
Jones,  our  new  housekeeper :  so  I  thought  you  might  be," 
was  the  inconsequent  answer. 

"Am  I  like  the  housekeeper?"  asked  Joan,  rather 
puzzled. 

"Only  not  near  so  fat,"  put  in  Bertie,  who  was  busy 
patting  the  salt. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  answered  Marion.  "I  mean 
you  are  like  her  because  you  are  not  used  to  children, 
mamma  said,  and  might  get  tired  of  us,  so  that  we  were 
not  to  bother  you  too  much.  So  you  are  like  Mrs.  Jones, 
ain't  you?" 


SEAFORTH.  233 

"Is  she  not  used  to  children?"  said  Joan,  for  the  sake 
of  saying  something. 

"No,"  answered  Marion,  "and  when  we  wanted  to  go 
and  cook,  she  said  she  couldn't  be  bothered.  We  thought 
she  was  cross,  but  mamma  said  it  was  only  because  she 
was  not  used  to  children.  Of  course,  if  she'd  been  born 
with  children,"  added  Marion,  "it  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent." 

After  this,  other  subjects  were  introduced  of  more  or 
less  interest. 

"Papa  and  mamma,"  said  Bertie,  "were  talking  such 
funny  things  about  you  before  you  came  down  to  break- 
fast. If  I  could  remember  the  words  I  would  tell  you  all 
about  it.  They  stopped  directly  you  came  in." 

The  children  were  now  taken  to  bed,  and  Joan,  at  their 
earnest  request,  attended  their  couche.  The  following 
quarrel  took  place  between  them  as  they  undressed : 

"  Marion !  Marion !  you  have  upset  my  shoes  and 
socks  off  the  chair  !" 

"No,  I  didn't,  Bertie." 

"  But  you  did,  Marion  !  I  saw  you." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  tell  stories,  Bertie." 

"  But  I  saw  you,  Marion." 

"Well,  never  mind,  Bertie." 

"  But  it  does  mind  !" 

A  slight  pause,  and  then  Bertie  said,  "Marion's  telling 
a  lie." 

"Well,  you're  not  my  mistress,"  Marion  finished  off 
pompously. 

To  divert  their  thoughts,  Joan  began  to  sing  to  them. 
She  sang  the  old-fashioned  ditties  her  nurse  had  years 
and  years  ago  sung  to  her;  and  six  times  over  at  least 
was  she  called  upon  for  the  prime  favorite,  which  they 
had  never  heard  before  : 

20* 


SEAFORTH. 


'Twas  mine  own  heart,   little  finger,   That   told 


When  you  are  dead,  little  finger, 

As  it  may  hap, 
You  shall  be  buried,  little  finger 

Under  the  tap. 

III. 
For  why  ?  For  why  ?  thumby, 

Thumby,  for  why  ? 
That  you  may  drink,  little  finger, 

When  you  are  dry. 

"May  we  say  our  prayers  to  you,  to-night?"  asked 
Marion,  when  the  entertainment  was  over,  and  the  nurse 
said  it  was  time  for  the  children  to  be  in  bed.  And, 


SEA  FORTH.  23$ 

before  Joan  could  assent  or  dissent,  her  breath  was  almost 
taken  away  by  the  promptitude  with  which  first  one  and 
then  the  other  knelt  down  and  plunged  into,  "  Pray, 
God,  bless  papa  and  mamma,  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
all  kind  friends.  Amen." 

"  You're  kind  friends,  you  know,"  said  Bertie,  coax- 
ingly,  "and  nurse  says  you'll  perhaps  be  our  sister  some 
day.  Do  you  think  you  will?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Marion.  "Don't  you?"  And 
without  waiting  for. an  answer  they  both  scampered  away 
into  the  bedroom  nursery. 

Joan  felt  rather  startled,  and  when  she  got  to  her  own 
room  she  sat  thinking  over  the  children's  words.  And 
her  vague  thoughts  resolved  themselves  into  two  of  some 
distinctness.  First,  that  she  must  never  come  to  Ainsbro' 
Park  again ;  and  secondly,  that  if  ever  she  had  children 
of  her  own,  she  should  like  just  such  another  little  pair  as 
Marion  and  Bertie. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  carriage  was  not  ordered  till 
one,  Joan  yielded  to  the  children's  entreaties  that  she 
would  take  one  last  walk  with  them,  and  come  into  the 
fields  to  get  blackberries.  It  was  a  lovely  autumn  day ; 
the  children  were  in  high  spirits,  and  for  a  time  Joan 
joined  in  their  occupation,  and  helped  to  reach  the 
blackberries  which  were  too  high  for  them.  But  a  feeling 
of  heart-sickness  and  weariness  came  over  her,  and  she 
sat  down  under  a  tree  to  rest.  The  children  brought  her 
hedge  daisies  and  other  treasures,  and  then  returned  to 
the  blackberries  once  more. 

Her  sad  thoughts  returned  upon  her,  and  she  had  no 
power  to  drive  them  away.  And  so  it  was  too  true  ! 
She  was  forgotten.  Other  interests  had  come  into  his 
life,  and  she  was  nothing  to  him  any  more.  It  was  all 
very  natural,  most  natural.  It  had  been  only  compassion, 


236  SEAFORTH. 

such  compassion  as  any  noble-minded  man  would  have 
felt  for  a  lonely  and  neglected  child.  It  was  all  very  differ- 
ent now.  She  was  a  woman  now,  and  he  a  man  with 
other  aims  and  objects,  and  a  new  and  different  life. 
But,  child  or  woman,  he  is  the  one  idol  of  Joan's  life, 
and,  as  she  sits  there  musing,  she  knows  it  all  too  well. 
Oh,  why  had  she  put  up  her  handkerchief  as  a  signal ! 
A  burning  blush  rose  to  her  cheek  at  the  recollection, 
and,  dying  away,  left  her  paler  than  before,  while  blank 
desolation  settled  down  upon  her  lonely,  empty  heart. 
Lonely,  lonely,  more  lonely  than  ever ! 

The  children's  voices  grew  faint  in  the  distance  as  they 
wandered  farther  and  farther  away;  the  quiet  autumn 
stillness  around  her  seemed  to  reflect  the  blank  silence  of 
her  life.  There  was  a  step  on  the  dead  leaves  behind 
her, — and  Godfrey  was  standing  at  her  side  !  Godfrey, 
holding  out  his  hands  to  her  with  the  old  familiar  smile. 

"At  last!"  he  said;  "at  last,  little  Joan  !" 

A  sense  of  overpowering  shyness  came  over  her.  She 
felt  as  if  he  must  read  her  very  thoughts,  and  she  turned 
away  her  head  and  did  not  answer. 

"Am  I  quite  forgotten?"  he  said,  sadly. 

She  could  not  resist  the  yearning  in  his  voice.  Slowly 
she  turned  her  dark  eyes  upon  him,  but  they  dropped 
beneath  his  gaze.  She  was  afraid  to  let  him  see  them, 
lest  he  should  read  in  their  depths  all  that  she  was  trying 
to  conceal. 

He  stooped  down  and  picked  up  some  of  the  big  hedge 
daisies  the  children  had  left  lying  at  her  feet.  Pulling 
off  their  petals  one  by  one,  he  repeated  to  himself  the 
old  childish  rhyme:  "M'aimes-tu? — Un  peu? — Beau- 
coup? — Passionnement? — Point  du  tout?" 

It  came  in  two  cases  to  "Point  du  tout." 

Godfrey  threw  the  daisies  down  again,  saying,  as  he 


SEAFORTH.  237 

did  so,  "  Lie  there,  faithless  daisies.  As  untrue  to  your 
old  answers  as  Joan  is  untrue  to  hers.  It  is  all  so  long 
ago  that  I  am  quite  forgotten,  and  Joan  does  not  love  her 
elder  brother  any  more  !" 

Joan  watched  him  as  he  did  all  this,  and  the  old  scenes 
of  her  childhood  rose  before  her.  The  meadows  disap- 
peared, and  she  was  standing  again  on  the  grass-plot  by 
the  fish-ponds.  It  seemed  easier  now  to  connect  the 
rising  lawyer  with  the  Godfrey  of  her  childhood, — the 
hero  of  her  girlish  dreams.  The  old  answer  rose  to  her 
lips  as  his  reproachful  words  fell  upon  her  ear.  Almost 
unconsciously,  she  turned  to  him,  and  whispered,  "I 
think  the  daisies  must  have  made  a  mistake,  Godfrey,  for 
I  know  I  do  !" 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

DIVIDED. 

"  AND  you  are  still  little  Joan,"  he  said,  softly,  looking 
at  her  intently  after  the  first  burst  of  questions  and 
answers  had  passed  between  them  ;  "  very  little  changed. 
Still  the  little  Joan  I  found  in  the  picture-gallery  nearly 
eight  years  ago.  But,"  he  added  anxiously,  "a  happier 
little  Joan,  I  hope?  Not  quite  the  sad  and  lonely  child 
I  found  there  then?" 

" Just  the  same,"  she  answered ;  "no  happier ;  just  as 
sad,  and  much  more  lonely." 

A  look  of  great  pain  passed  over  his  face.  "  I  had  so 
hoped,"  he  said,  "that  changes  in  circumstances  might 
have  wrought  a  change,  and  brought  you  and  your  father 
closer  together." 


238  SEAFORTH. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Is  it  his  fault  entirely?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her 
searchingly. 

She  shook  her  head  again.  "  How  can  I  love  any  one 
who  wrongs  you  so  cruelly?" 

The  words  burst  from  her  before  she  could  stop  them. 

"Is  it  really  so?"  he  said;  and  something  in  his  eyes, 
like  a  delight  he  seemed  in  vain  to  try  to  conceal,  came 
for  a  moment  and  was  gone  directly.  "Do  you  still 
believe  in  me  as  much  as  that?  But  why,"  he  added, 
hastily  interrupting  himself,  "  why  do  you  say  more  lonely  ? 
What  could  be  sadder  or  more  lonely  than  the  state  in 
which  I  found  you?" 

"Because,"  she  cried,  "to  have  had  so  much,  and  to 
have  lost  it,  is  worse  than  never  to  have  had  anything  at 
all.  Because  when  I  returned  to  the  darkness  and  the 
loneliness  in  which  you  found  me,  I  found  it  all  the  darker 
for  having  known  what  the  light  could  be.  Because  when 
you  left  me  you  took  all  that  made  my  life  with  you,  and 
without  you,  life  it  has  not  been, — only  a  slow  bearing  of 
existence  from  day  to  day.  I  always  told  you  I  could  not 
live  without  you.  Oh,  Godfrey!  why  did  you  go?" 

"  Yet,  some  say,"  he  answered,  gently,  without  appar- 
ently noticing  her  last  words,  "some  say  the  memory  of 
bygone  happiness  is  a  blessing  beyond  price, — a  posses- 
sion which  is  theirs  forever,  which  none  can  take  away." 

"/do  not  think  so!"  she  exclaimed:  "the  contrast 
between  the  brightness  of  the  past  and  the  darkness  of  the 
present  increases  the  pain  tenfold.  I  endured  my  lonely 
childhood  because  I  knew  no  better;  but  this  blank, 
lonely  girlhood,  this  present  with  no  future,  this  life  with 
no  love, — I  cannot  bear  it,  Godfrey.  It  is  killing  me  day 
by  day.  And  the  past  was  so  sunny,  our  life  of  love  and 
sympathy  so  fair !" 


SEAFORTH. 


239 


He  was  deeply  moved,  and  turned  his  head  away  with 
a  bitter  sigh.  "And  I,"  he  said  mournfully,  "I,  who 
vowed  myself,  under  the  picture,  to  care  for  you,  and  to 
make  up  to  you  for  all  you  had  suffered,  I  can  do  nothing 
to  help  you, — nothing !  Fate  is  dealing  very  sternly  with 
us,  little  Joan." 

"Godfrey,"  she  cried,  "what  is  the  mystery  that  is 
lying  on  your  life?  Tell  me  your  secret,  and  let  me  bear 
with  you  all  the  sorrow  and  the  trouble  it  entails  upon 
you.  Tell  me." 

She  waited,  breathless,  as  if  life  and  death  hung  upon 
his  answer. 

He  turned  his  head  away  again,  and  his  eye  sought  the 
pure  blue  sky  above,  so  often  his  refuge  and  solace  in  the 
dark  hours  of  his  trouble,  and  his  face  grew  visibly  paler. 
Oh,  God  !  the  temptation  was  terrible  ! 

"Yes,"  urged  one  voice  within  him,  "tell  her.  Let 
her  help  you  to  bear  your  life.  It  is  for  her  happiness  as 
well  as  for  your  own.  Tell  her." 

"What!"  said  another  voice,  "  lay  such  a  burden  on 
this  young  girl !  Soil  the  whiteness  of  her  pure  young 
hands  with  your  guilty  secret  !" 

Very  sadly  he  looked  down  upon  her,  as  he  answered, 
in  hardly  audible  tones,  "  /  cannot  /"  Mournfully  the 
summer  breezes  seemed  to  wail  and  whisper  round  them ; 
the  wind  in  the  fir-trees  caught  up  the  accents  and  echoed, 
"  I  cannot." 

"You  do  not  really  love  me  as  you  used,  Godfrey," 
she  said,  weeping,  "or  you  would  trust  me  more. 
Young  as  I  was,  there  were  then  no  secrets  between  us, 
and  now " 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully,  almost  reproachfully,  as  he 
answered,  in  words  they  had  so  often  in  the  old  days  read 
together, — 


240  SEA  FORTH. 

"  Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you.  too,  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

A  sudden  light  broke  all  over  her  face,  and  was  re- 
flected for  a  moment  on  his.  Then,  as  if  alarmed  at  the 
admission  he  was  making,  his  face  grew  grave  and  sad 
again,  and  the  light  died  away. 

"Between  you  and  me,  little  Joan,"  he  said,  in  a 
dreary,  far-away  voice,  "  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed.  On 
our  sad  young  lives  the  word  is  written — divided  !  I  can 
link  no  life  to  mine,  ask  none  to  share  my  name.  Yet  I 
am  not  like  you.  I  would  not  part  with  the  memory  of  our 
happy  days  together.  To  me  it  is  all  in  all  !" 

"  And  must  it  always  be  like  this?"  she  asked  :  "  must 
we  live  on  a  memory  forever?  Is  there  no  future  for  us, 
and  to  our  sorrow  and  separation  is  there  to  be  no  end?" 

"  I  see  no  end  as  yet,"  he  answered.    "  God  help  us  !" 

"But  we  are  so  young,"  she  cried,  "and  life  stretches 
before  us  so  long  and  so  drearily.  How  shall  we  face  our 
lives  ?  How  shall  we  bear  to  be  divided  ?  we  who,  though 
so  unwanted  by  others,  are  all  in  all  to  each  other?" 

"  Oh,  Joan,"  he  said,  "  little  Joan,  is  it  really  so?  Am 
I  really  all  in  all  to  you  still  ?"  He  spoke  with  a  kind  of 
despair,  with  which  a  secret  joy  and  pride  struggled. 

"Surely,"  she  answered,  simply;  "whom  have  I  ever 
had  in  my  world  but  you  ?  and  without  you  my  world  is 
empty  indeed." 

He  half  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  stop  her  as  she  spoke, 
but  the  look  of  pleasure  crept  into  his  eyes  again,  and 
this  time  it  did  not  go  directly.  Passionate  words  of  love 
and  devotion  rose  to  his  lips,  but  he  forced  them  back, 
and  clinched  his  hands  firmly  together. 

"And  you?"  she  said,  timidly,  pained  by  his  manner, 


SEA  FORTH. 


241 


" do  you  not  love  me  still?  Am  I  not  all  in  all  to  you 
too?" 

"  God  help  me  !"  he  groaned  ;  "you  are  the  day-star 
of  my  life,  little  Joan." 

"Then,  Godfrey,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hands  to 
him,  "do  not  leave  me  any  more.  Think  of  the  life  to 
which  I  shall  this  day  return!  Am  I  loved?  Am  I 
wanted  ?  Why  should  not  we  take  our  lives  into  our  own 
hands  ?  Take  me  with  you.  Let  me  share  your  troubles, 
and  bear  your  burdens  with  you.  Let  me  go  where  you 
go,  live  where  you  live,  die  where  you  die  !" 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  the  trust  and  adoration  of 
her  childhood,  with  which  the  deeper  love  of  riper  years 
was  merged  and  mingled. 

He  turned  his  head  away,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  Much  had  he  borne  in  the  dark  and  lonely  path 
to  which  he  had  vowed  himself,  and  the  strength  of  his 
purpose  had  carried  him  through.  More  would  he  bear, 
if  bear  he  must ;  but  when  it  came  to  see  another  suffer, — 
oh,  God  !  it  was  hard — hard.  So  easy,  in  comparison, 
was  it  to  bear  trouble  for  himself;  but  to  bear  it  for  her  [ 
What  was  he  to  do  ?  What  was  he  to  say  ?  What  could 
be  done  to  help  her  ? 

He  cast  his  thoughts  back  to  her  childhood,  to  see  if 
he  could  glean  or  strength  or  counsel  from  the  past ;  some 
memory  of  his  dealings  with  the  child  in  her  troubles 
wherewith  to  help  the  woman  in  this  her  hour  of  trial. 
Down  the  long  gallery  he  sees  her  again  receding,  bright, 
brave,  and  smiling  still,  bearing  herself  so  firm  and 
bravely  that  he  may  not  weaken  or  fail.  He  recalls  once 
again,  with  a  yearning  love  and  pity,  the  light,  childish  step 
that  strove  so  hard  not  to  falter,  the  proud  and  queenly 
bearing  of  the  now  drooping  little  head.  Could  he  only 
touch  that  chord  again,  once  more  awaken  those  noble 


242 


SEAFORTH. 


feelings  which  had  carried  her  so  bravely  through  before, 
call  up  for  a  moment  that  martyr  spirit  that  so  readily 
and  gladly  sacrifices  itself  for  the  sake  of  the  one  it  loves  ! 

He  turned  suddenly  to  her,  holding  out  both  his  hands. 
"Little  Joan,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "you  must  be  my 
good  angel  still.  You  must  help  and  not  hinder  me  in 
my  difficult  life.  Otherwise  no  blessing  can  rest  upon 
our  affection  :  it  will  be  idolatry,  not  love.  You  must  be 
the  day-star  of  my  life,  to  whom  I  may  turn  for  strength 
to  go  on  in  the  hard  path  of  duty.  Say  you  will  help  me 
to  be  brave  and  patient,  by  being  both  yourself.  Oh,  say 
it  for  my  sake,  little  Joan  !" 

He  had  struck  the  right  chord  at  last.  She  was  herself 
again  directly,  her  true,  unselfish  self, — a  brave,  self-sacri- 
ficing woman,  ready  to  lay  any  burden  on  herself,  if  by  so 
doing  she  could  ease  him  by  a  fragment  of  the  load  he  bore. 

She  put  her  hands  in  his,  and  whispered,  "I  will." 

"  God  bless  you  for  those  words  !"  he  murmured.  "  Re- 
freshed and  strengthened,  they  send  me  on  my  way.  Oh, 
Joan,  little  Joan  !  God  knows,  you  know,  how  gladly  I 
would  take  you  with  me ;  but  it  may  not  be  !  Some  day, 
perhaps ;  some  day.  Now  wish  me  God-speed  before  I  go. " 

The  children  came  chattering  back,  with  their  baskets 
full  of  the  nuts  and  blackberries  they  had  been  gathering, 
to  where  Joan  sat,  as  in  a  dream,  feeling  as  if  she  had 
lived  her  life  out  since  they  went  away. 

"Have  you  been  dull  all  alone?"  said  Bertie,  anx- 
iously. "  Have  we  been  too  long  away?" 

The  touch  of  his  caressing  little  fingers  and  his  coax- 
ing accents  were  almost  too  much  for  the  poor  girl's  over- 
wrought feelings.  She  hid  her  face  in  his  curly 'hair  to 
hide  the  tears  which  came  into  her  eyes.  "  No,  darling," 
she  whispered,  "I  have  not  been  dull." 


SEA  FORTH.  243 

But  something  in  her  voice  made  him  suspicious,  and 
he  peeped  anxiously  under  her  hat. 

"What's  the  matter  wiff  you?"  he  said.  "Let  me 
see  your  face.  I  want  you  to  look  at  me  with  your  great 
big  eyes." 

Joan  raised  her  head,  and  looked  full  at  the  little  fel- 
low with  a  smile. 

"  You've  got  such  a  pretty  face  !"  exclaimed  the  child, 
struck  with  a  sudden  admiration.  "I  didn't  never  know 
before  what  a  pretty  face  you'd  got !" 

The  light  which  is  reflected  straight  from  heaven  was 
shining  in  the  eyes  of  little  Joan. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

MR.   WAUKENPHAST. 

WHEN  Hester  returned  from  Nice,  on  the  evening  of 
Colin's  visit  to  the  chalet,  she  met  the  three  girls  a  little 
way  from  the  house,  and  they  all  returned  home  together. 

"Well,  my  darlings,"  she  said,  as  they  walked  along, 
"  and  what  have  you  been  doing  all  day?  How  did  you 
get  on  without  me?" 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Olive,  "we  have  had  such  a  happy 
day,  mamma !  You  have  no  idea  how  pleasant  it  has 
been  !" 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Hester,  surprised,  "what  has  made 
it  so  pleasant?" 

"We  have  had  a  visitor,"  said  Olive,  "and  he  has 
teen  sitting  with  us  all  day." 


244  SEAFORTH. 

"A  visitor!"  exclaimed  Hester.  "Who?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"Yes,"  said  Olive,  with  sparkling  eyes,  "it  was  a 
gentleman  from  Monaco;  and  we've  had  such  a  pleasant 
time  !" 

"A  gentleman  from  Monaco  !"  repeated  Hester,  more 
and  more  bewildered.  "Has  your  father  been  home? 
Did  he  bring  him?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !"'  said  Olive ;  "he  came  quite  by  him- 
self; and  he  is  so  nice,  mother  dear,  it  is  a  pity  you 
missed  him." 

"  But  who  is  he  ?"  inquired  Hester,  "  and  what  brought 
him  here?  What  is  his  name?" 

"He  is  a  Scotchman,"  said  Olive,  "and  we  call  him 
Mr.  Waukenphast." 

"  Waukenphast !"  said  Hester:  "that  is  not  a  Scotch 
name.  Oh,  my  dear  children,  you  should  not  have  made 
friends  with  a  stranger  when  I  was  away.  He  may  be  a 
card-sharper  from  Monaco,  or  anything  else." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  mother,"  said  Olive,  earnestly  :  "  he 
has  been  saying  what  a  wicked  place  Monaco  is,  and  how 
he  has  been  so  dreadfully  cheated  himself  that  he's  never 
going  to  play  again.  I  am  sure  when  you  see  him  you'll 
see  in  a  minute  he  couldrit  be  a  card-sharper.  His  face 
is  much  too  good  and  pleasant." 

"When  I  see  him!"  repeated  Hester.  "Why,  is  he 
here  still?" 

"No;  but  he's  coming  again,"  said  Olive.  "We 
begged  and  prayed  him  to  come  again  soon,  and  he 
promised  he  would.  So  you  will  see  him,  and  I  know 
you  will  like  him." 

Hester  now  turned  to  her  eldest  daughter,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  a  rather  more  definite  account  from  her 
of  the  day's  proceedings.  But  the  circumstance  only  sent 


SEAFORTH.  245 

her  to  bed  with  a  heavier  heart  than  usual,  and  a  deeper 
sense  of  her  children's  unprotected  position,  both  in  the 
present  and  in  the  future. 

From  that  day  she  fancied  she  noticed  a  change  in 
Olive.  She  seemed  restless,  and  as  if  always  in  expecta- 
tion of  something.  She  could  not  settle  herself  steadily 
to  her  usual  occupations. 

The  days,  however,  passed  on,  and  Mr.  Waukenphast 
did  not  reappear.  But  one  morning,  when  Olive  and  her 
mother  were  sitting  together  in  the  orange-grove,  Olive's 
work  suddenly  dropped  upon  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  be- 
came fixed  on  some  distant  object,  while  a  beautiful  blush 
overspread  her  face. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Oily?"  asked  her 
mother,  surprised  at  the  change  in  the  girl's  face,  and 
suddenly  struck  with  her  beauty. 

"  He  is  coming,  mother  !"  said  Olive,  softly.  "  Here 
he  is!" 

"Who?"  said  Hester,  much  puzzled,  and  she  turned 
quickly  round. 

Colin  was  advancing,  hat  in  hand, — the  impersonation 
of  bright,  frank,  English  manhood.  Hester  felt  there 
was  no  doubting  that  the  young  man  before  her  was  a 
high-bred  English  gentleman. 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile. 

"This  is  mamma,"  said  Olive,  shyly,  as  he  came  up 
and  shook  hands. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Olive, 
after  a  few  respectful  words  of  greeting  to  her  mother, 
"I  am  so  sorry  I  could  not  come  before,  but  I  have  had 
some  business  to  attend  to,  and  could  not  get  away." 

"  Business  at  Monaco  !"  exclaimed  Olive.  "  I  did  not 
know  there  was  any  business  at  Monaco  ;  I  thought  it  was 
all  play!" 

21* 


246  SEAFORTH. 

"Ah,  Miss  Olive,"  said  Colin,  "unfortunately,  play 
at  Monaco  is  business  to  which  what  we  call  business  is 
only  play.  Their  play  is  indeed  a  terrible  business.  But 
my  business  has  been  at  Nice,  not  Monaco  !"  His  brow 
clouded  over  as  he  spoke. 

"And  what  has  your  business  been  there?"  she  asked. 
"Not  play,  surely !" 

"No,"  he  answered,  gravely;  "I  have  been  engaged 
in  trying  to  bring  an  old  fox  to  earth,  and  I  mean  to  hunt 
him  down,  too." 

"  Him  !"  she  said.     "Whom?" 

"I  don't  know  his  name,"  he  answered,  "nor  care 
to;  I  know  him,  that's  quite  enough.  These  gamblers, 
Miss  Olive,  don't  care  to  give  their  real  names  always, 
and " 

"  My  daughter,"  interrupted  Hester,  hastily,  and  rather 
stiffly,  "knows  nothing  about  these  things:  you  are  talk- 
ing Greek  to  her." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Colin,  directly,  "I  ought 
not  to  run  on  like  this.  But  I  was  just  following  the 
course  of  my  own  thoughts  on  a  subject  of  which  they  are 
just  now  full,  and  I  quite  forgot  whom  I  was  speaking  to." 

"  Forgot  whom  you  were  speaking  to?"  laughed  Olive. 
"  Why,  you  never  knew,  did  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "If  you  remember,  when  I  was 
here  before,  you  told  me  your  name,  and  I  said  I  should 
never  forget  it.  And,"  he  added,  half  to  himself,  "I 
never  shall." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  only  my  Christian'  name,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  know  my  surname.  Now,  I  don't  know 
your  Christian  name,  but  I  do  know  your  surname. 
That's  just  the  difference." 

"Z><?you?"  he  said.  "I  do  not  remember  telling  it 
to  you." 


SEAFORTH.  247 

"  Yes,"  answered  Olive ;  "  you  are  Mr.  Waukenphast." 

Colin  laughed.  "You  said  that  was  my  name,"  he 
replied  ;  "  but  /never  did." 

Hester  here  joined  in.  "  My  daughter  told  me,"  she 
said,  "that  your  name  was  Waukenphast,  and  I  quite 
believed  her.  At  the  same  time  she  said  you  were  Scotch, 
and  I  confess  I " 

"You  thought  I  was  an  impostor,"  laughed  Colin. 
"I  don't  wonder.  No,  Miss  Olive,"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  young  girl,  "there  is  no  clan  Waukenphast,  but  there 
is  a  clan  Fraser,  and  to  it  I  belong : 

1  Colin  Fraser  is  my  name, 
Scotland  is  my  nation, 
The  little  glen's  my  dwelling-place, 
A  pleasant  habitation.' 

"Or,  rather,"  he  added,  "it  ought  to  be.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  is  not.  You  must,"  he  added,  turning  once 
more  to  Hester,  who  seemed  suddenly  lost  in  thought, 
"have  wondered  who  your  daughters'  visitor  could  be." 

"I  did,  indeed,"  she  said,  looking  at  him,  but  speak- 
ing as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

"  But  now  you  know,  mamma,"  said  Olive. 

"Yes,"  said  Hester,  dreamily,  and  as  if  speaking  to 
herself;  "  I  hear.  He  is  Colin  Fraser.  Most  extraor- 
dinary !" 

"No,"  put  in  Olive,  "not  yet;  something  extraor- 
dinary some  day,  but  only  unpaid  attache  as  yet.  But 
how  did  you  guess  that,  mamma  dear?" 

Hester  shook  herself  free  from  her  thoughts,  to  wonder 
how  she  was  ever  to  teach  a  daughter  brought  up  in  the 
mountains  the  manners  of  society. 

"I  don't  wish  to  ask  impertinent  questions,"  said 
Colin,  "but  may  I,  in  return  for  my  own  confidences, 


248  SEAFORTH. 

know  the  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  I  am  speaking,  and 
whom,  as  yet,  I  only  know  as  Miss  Olive's  mother?" 

"No,"  said  Hester,  hurriedly,  "not  yet.  Later  on, 
perhaps ;  but  for  the  present  I  will  only  be  Miss  Olive's 
mother." 

Colin  bowed  assent,  but  looked  disappointed. 

"Mr.  Fraser,"  added  Hester,  "will  you  stay  here  the 
night,  if  your  business  at  Nice  is  concluded?  We  can 
only  offer  you  a  very  humble  lodging,  and  very  frugal 
fare ;  but  such  as  it  is  you  are  welcome  to  it.  And  as  to 
clothes,  etc.,  my  husband's  wardrobe  is  very  much  at 
your  disposal.  He  himself  is  away  just  now." 

Colin  accepted  the  invitation  with  great  eagerness. 

The  arrival  of  Hessie  and  Venetia  on  the  scenes  then 
gave  a  fresh  turn  to  the  conversation,  and  the  mother, 
after  a  time,  left  them  all  together,  and  went  into  the 
house  to  make  a  few  preparations  for  the  comfort  of  the 
guest,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Colin  and  Olive 
strolled  away  together  and  were  seen  no  more.  When 
the  hour  of  supper  drew  near,  Hessie  and  Venice  re- 
turned to  the  chalet,  but  the  other  two  were  wandering 
still.  And  when  they  appeared,  they  were  still  talking 
gayly,  as  though  they  had  not  half  finished  all  they  had  to 
say. 

Colin  will  never  forget  that  evening.  After  supper, 
they  all  sat  out  in  the  orange-grove,  and  the  three  sisters 
sang  glees  without  accompaniment.  The  moon  shone 
through  the  olives,  and  to  his  mind  it  was  the  fairest 
scene  he  had  ever  beheld.  Fain  would  he  it  could  have 
lasted  longer ;  but  Hester  broke  up  the  party  after  a  time, 
and  seemed  anxious  to  dismiss  him  to  the  smoking-room, 
and  to  send  the  girls  to  bed.  She  took  him  there  her- 
self, and  then  went  up-stairs  with  her  daughters. 

But  as  soon  as  the  lights  were  out  in  the  house,  and 


SEA  FORTH. 


249 


all  was  quiet,  she  came  down  again,  and  returned  to  the 
smoking-room,  where  Colin  was  sitting,  wrapped  in  pleas- 
ant thoughts.  Closing  the  door  carefully  and  softly  be- 
hind her,  she  came  forward,  and  said  that,  if  he  were 
not  very  tired,  she  should  be  glad  to  have  some  conversa- 
tion with  him. 

Colin,  whose  thoughts  were  all  on  one  subject,  who 
could  not  that  night  conceive  of  any  other,  felt  very 
nervous.  He  was  afraid  the  unpaid  attache  was  going 
to  receive  a  dismissal  at  the  hands  of  an  anxious  mother. 
He  placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  waited  anxiously  for  her 
to  begin. 


CHAPTER    L. 

THE   CONVERSATION   IN  THE  SMOKING-ROOM. 

BUT  her  first  words  changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts 
entirely. 

"  Colin  Fraser,"  she  said,  sadly,  "we  ought  not  to  be 
strangers  to  each  other.  Do  you  not  know,  have  you 
not  guessed  ere  this,  who  we  are?" 

But  Colin  only  looked  bewildered. 

"  When  I  refused  to  give  you  my  name  to-day,"  she 
continued,  "it  was  that  I  did  not  wish  you  in  the 
presence  of  my  daughters  to  discover  what  I  perceived 
at  once  myself.  Tell  me,  were  you  not  brought  up  at 
Seaforth,  and  were  you  not  for  a  time  thrown  there  with 
Lord  Seaforth's  adopted  son?" 

"Godfrey  Seaforth!"  exclaimed  Colin,  starting  from 
his  seat,  and  a  rush  of  thought  coming  over  him  ;  "what 
of  Godfrey  Seaforth  ?  What  have  you  to  do  with  him  ?" 
i* 


250  SEAFORTH. 

"  Alas !"  she  said,  "  I  am  his  mother  !" 

"His  mother!"  cried  Colin,  almost  knocked  over 
with  astonishment ;  "  Godfrey  Seaforth's  mother !" 

But  his  next  feeling  was  the  overpowering  shame  and 
regret  which  he  always  felt  in  connection  with  that  part 
of  his  life, — the  feeling  that  his  own  dead  mother  had, 
in  all  concerning  Godfrey,  been  deeply  to  blame.  Surely 
Godfrey  Seaforth's  mother  could  not  but  be  thinking  so 
too! 

But  when  he  glanced  at  Hester,  he  saw  that  no  feel- 
ings of  that  sort  were  at  work  in  her  mind.  Her  atti- 
tude was  one  of  deep  dejection,  and  her  eyes  expressed 
nothing  but  pitiful  entreaty. 

"My  boy!"  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice, — "what  of 
him?  Tell  me  something  about  him.  Has  anything 
been  heard  ?  Is  anything  known  ?" 

Colin  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"I  know  nothing  about  him,  Mrs.  Seaforth, — nothing." 

She  turned  away  deeply  disappointed. 

"  But  you  can,  perhaps,  throw  some  light  upon  the 
past,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "Anything  you  can  tell  me  of 
his  life  at  Seaforth  will  be  a  revelation  to  me,  and  may 
help  me  to  understand  the  present.  Tell  me  anything 
you  can  remember." 

Poor  Colin  !  It  was  a  trying  request,  and  a  hard  task, 
to  go  over  the  past  with  Godfrey's  mother,  retracing 
passages  he  would  so  gladly  forget  in  the  life  of  his  own. 
He  screened  her  in  his  recital  as  well  as  he  could ;  but 
he  could  not  help  letting  Hester  see  that  he  did  not  hold 
her  entirely  blameless. 

"  She  is  dead,  is  she  not?"  said  Hester,  softly. 

"Alas  !  poor  mother  !"  he  answered,  "she  pined  away 
and  died.  Hers  was  a  difficult  nature,  and  its  pride 
could  not  brook  mortification.  She  could  not  survive 


SEA  FORTH. 


251 


failure  and  banishment.  But  she  repented  bitterly,  Mrs. 
Seaforth,"  he  went  on,  earnestly.  "She  told  me  and 
my  brother  on  her  death-bed  that  had  she  that  part  of 
her  life  to  live  over  again  she  would  act  very  differently. 
She  charged  us  both,  if  ever  we  met  Godfrey  Seaforth 
again,  to  tell  him  so,  and  to  beg  him  to  forgive  her  for 
her  conduct  towards  him.  But  one  thing,"  he  added, 
hesitatingly,  "one  thing  I  must  say.  I  do  not  think  any 
word  or  act  of  hers  had  anything  to  do  with  Lord  Sea- 
forth's  alienation  from  his  nephew.  That  was  altogether 
a  separate  matter.  All  that  is  wrapped  in  mystery, 
which  will,  I  fancy  sometimes,  never  be  revealed  till  the 
judgment  day.  I  have,  however,  my  own  ideas  about 
it."  Hester  caught  eagerly  at  his  words,  and  begged 
Jiim  to  tell  her  what  those  ideas  were.  Colin  looked 
terribly  confused.  He  blushed  scarlet,  and  answered, 
hurriedly,  "Oh,  no  !  indeed  I  cannot.  Pray  do  not  ask 
me.  I  entirely  forgot  whom  I  was  speaking  to." 

She  looked  searchingly  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  said, 
quietly,  though  with  deep  sadness,  "  Do  not  fear  offend- 
ing me.  Say  on.  It  will  be  kinder  in  the  end.  Do  not 
mind  me.  Look  upon  me  only  as  Godfrey's  mother, 
and  speak  without  a  thought  of  any  one  else." 

"If  it  is  your  desire,"  he  said,  but  he  looked  away 
from  her  as  he  spoke,  "I  will.  I  have  always  fancied 
he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of,  and  been  led  away  by 
— his  father  !" 

There  was  a  silence,  and  he  was  afraid  that  after  all  she 
was  hurt  and  angry. 

But  she  was  only  thinking  deeply.  "  It  could  not  be," 
she  said,  at  last;  "it  could  not  be  without  my  knowing 
it.  No,  he  has  never  been  near  his  father  or  me.  He 
has  held  no  communication  of  any  sort  with  us.  He 
has  not  written  a  line  to  me  for  many,  many  years." 


252  SEAFORTH. 

"Then  what  is  your  idea  about  him?"  asked  Colin. 
"  How  do  you  account  for  his  conduct?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered,  with  a  deep  sigh  :  "  I 
feel  I  can  trust  you,  and  that  you  will  understand." 

She  then,  to  begin  with,  confided  to  him  all  her  old 
fears  and  scruples  about  the  way  in  which  Godfrey  had 
been  brought  up,  with  which  the  reader  is  acquainted, 
keeping  as  much  in  the  background  as  possible  his  father's 
share  in  the  matter.  "Think,"  she  went  on,  "of  the 
almost  primeval  life  he  led  here,  and  then  think  of  his 
sudden  introduction  into  English  life.  Look  at  his  sis- 
ters. You  see  its  effect  upon  them.  They  are  like 
children  in  their  ignorance  of  the  world.  And  he  was 
taken  away  from  here  and  suddenly  plunged  into  English 
life,  with  an  independent  fortune  in  the  present,  and  heir 
to  thousands  in  the  future.  His  uncle  had  no  hold  over 
him.  He  deeply  resented  his  conduct  in  the  matter  of 
disinheriting  his  father,  and  so  he  neither  liked  nor  re- 
spected him.  How  do  I  know  into  what  bad  hands  he 
may  have  fallen,  into  what  a  life  of  reckless  expenditure 
he,  with  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money,  may  have  been 
led  ?  But  still,  in  spite  of  all  this,  I  should  not  have  felt 
so  hopeless  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  refusing  to  meet  me, 
for  his  taking  flight  from  me.  That  is  really  why  my 
heart  misgives  me  so.  That  is  why  I  feel  he  must  know 
himself  to  be  deeply  to  blame.  He  shrank  from  seeing 
me.  He  would  not  meet  me  face  to  face.  Me !  his 
mother!"  And  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"  Then  the  long  unbroken  silence  of  all  these  years 
since,"  she  went  on,  a  few  minutes  after;  "there  is,  to 
my  mind,  another  sad  proof  of  his  guilt.  Why  should 
he  mistrust  my  love  and  hide  from  me  like  this? 
He  must  have  changed  very  much,  or  else  entirely  for- 
gotten, if  he  can  think  me  so  unforgiving.  What  sin 


SEA  FORTH. 


253 


could  he  commit  that  I  would  not  freely  forgive?  What 
sorrow  could  the  knowledge  of  his  wrong-doing  bring  me 
that  could  be  so  hard  to  bear  as  this  blank,  cold  silence, 
this  never-ending  suspense  and  uncertainty?  Oh,  if  I 
only  knew  where  he  was  !  If  I  could  only  write  to  him, 
and  assure  him  of  my  forgiveness,  and  beg  him  to  come 
back  to  me  !  I  still  feel  that  if  I  could  only  meet  him, 
only  look  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  I  could  make  him 
tell  me  all.  But  I  have  never  been  able  to  do  anything 
to  find  him.  I  have  never  had  any  one  to  whom  I  could 
turn  for  help." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  more 
calmly.  "When  I  discovered  who  you  were  to-day,  my 
first  thought  was  that  you  would  be  able  to  tell  me  some- 
thing. It  seems  you  cannot ;  but  at  least  you  can  help 
me  to  find  out.  Oh,  Mr.  Fraser,  find  him  for  me,  I  im- 
plore you  !  Tell  him  all  I  have  said.  Or,  if  you  cannot 
go  to  England  yourself,  have  you  no  friend  who  would 
try  and  find  out  something  about  him, — find  out,  at  least, 
whether  he  is  dead  or  alive?"' 

"Mrs.  Seaforth,"  answered  Colin,  deeply  moved,  "I 
cannot  tell  you  how  thankful,  how  grateful,  I  should  be, 
if  I  could  be  the  means  of  helping  you, — if,  in  God's 
mercy,  I  might  in  any  way  lessen  the  trouble  by  which 
you  and  yours  have  been  overwhelmed.  That  my  family 
should  be  associated  in  your  mind  with  other  thoughts 
than  those  with  which  I  feel  you  must  regard  it,  would  be 
a  joy  to  me  which  I  can  hardly  describe  to  you.  I  would 
start  off  to  England  this  very  night  if  I  could  ;  but,  alas! 
I  am  not  my  own  master.  Do  not,  however,"  he  added, 
quickly,  seeing  her  face  full  of  disappointment,  "do  not 
despair.  Much  can  be  done  by  writing,  and  I  can  trust 
my  brother  to  do  all  that  I  would  do  myself.  He  is  a 
curate  in  Warwickshire,  but  1  know  he  will  go  to  London 
22 


254  SEA  FORTH. 

directly  on  such  an  errand  as  this,  and  put  himself  in 
communication  with  the  necessary  authorities,  and  do  all 
he  can  to  find  out  something  about  your  son.  I  will 
write  now  directly,  and  say  exactly  what  you  wish,  so 
that  my  brother's  answer  may  reach  me  before  the  am- 
bassador carries  me  back  to  Berlin.  After  that,  Andrew 
had  better  correspond  directly  with  you." 

"  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Fraser  !"  she  exclaimed,  sud- 
denly filled  with  hope.  "  May  God  bless  and  reward 
you  !  I  can  never  tell  you  what  it  is  to  me.  I  have 
longed  day  and  night  for  an  opportunity  of  enlisting 
some  one's  sympathy  and  assistance,  but  all  hope  of  it 
was  fast  dying  away.  It  is  indeed  marvellous  that  you, 
of  all  people,  should  have  been  sent  to  my  help.  It 
seems  almost  like  a  miracle.  God-sent  you  are,  you  must 
be.  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  repay  you  for  your  kind- 
ness." 

"You  can,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Colin,  impetuously; 
"  you  can  repay  me  a  thousand-fold  ;  you  can  give  me 
the  hope  of  a  reward  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  poor 
services  I  am  rendering  you." 

"Can  I?"  she  said,  wondering.     "How?" 

"  Can  you  not  guess?"  exclaimed  Colin. 

"No,"  she  said.     "  What  can  it  be?     Tell  me." 

"The  hope,"  he  answered,  "that  you  will  one  day 
give  me  your  daughter  for  my  own." 

"  My  daughter!"  she  repeated.     "Which  daughter?" 

"Your  daughter  Olive,"  he  answered. 

"  Olive  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Little  Oily  !  Why,  Olive 
is  a  mere  child  !" 

"Time  will  cure  that,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "and  I  am 
only  asking  you  to  give  me  the  hope  of  it,  when  I  have 
risen  in  my  profession  and  can  offer  her  a  home." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  her?"  she  asked,  hastily. 


SEAFORTH.  255 

And,  on  Colin's  earnestly  answering  in  the  negative, 
she  added,  imploringly, — 

"  Do  not  speak  to  her  yet !  She  is  so  young,  so  inex- 
perienced. Wait  a  little  longer.  And  indeed,  even  as 
far  as  /  am  concerned,  you  must  not  expect  an  answer 
to-night.  I  am  so  taken  by  surprise,  so  bewildered.  Let 
me  sleep  upon  it,  and  give  you  an  answer  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  she  wished  Colin  a  kind  good-night,  and 
sought  her  pillow  with  a  vague  kind  of  undefined  feeling 
that  the  future  did  not  look  quite  so  hopeless  as  usual,  and 
that  there  was  a  glimmer  of  light  on  the  darkness  of  her 
way.  For,  if  one  child's  future  was  settled  and  in  safe 
hands,  there  would  be  a  refuge  for  the  others  when  those 
dark  days  came  which  were  still  ever-present  to  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MUTUAL   RECOGNITIONS. 

DOWNWARDS,  ever  downwards,  had  been  Godfrey  Sea- 
forth  the  elder's  career.  Gradually  he  had  passed  the 
narrow  boundary-line  that  divides  honor  from  dishonor, 
truth  from  falsehood.  Lost  now  to  all  sense  of  principle, 
he  stooped  habitually  to  get  by  foul  means  what  he  could 
not  always  obtain  by  fair.  He  had  of  late  years  frequented 
Nice  more  than  Monaco,  and  it  was  here  that  he  was  the 
terror  of  the  club,  though  as  yet  he  was  not  definitely 
suspected.  Vague  rumors  were  heard  sometimes  as  to  the 
secret  of  his  extraordinary  and  persistent  luck ;  but  they 
died  away  without  any  results,  for  no  one  could  bring 
home  to  him  their  vague  suspicions. 


256  SEA  FORTH. 

Intense  was  the  excitement  of  the  life  Godfrey  led. 
At  first  he  had  been  in  daily  and  hourly  dread  of  detec- 
tion, but  he  had  got  accustomed  to  the  feeling  now ;  and 
as  he  had  never  been  in  any  danger  of  being  discovered, 
he  had  got  hardened  in  his  evil  course,  and  had  lost  the 
fear  of  exposure. 

But  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  English  ambassador 
from  Berlin,  he  began  to  have  an  uneasy  feeling  with 
regard  to  a  young  Englishman,  who,  at  about  the  same 
time,  appeared  at  the  club.  He  was  a  tall,  fair,  good- 
looking  young  man.  At  first  he  had  been  willing  enough 
to  become  one  of  Godfrey's  victims.  But  he  now  never 
played.  All  the  same  he  continued  to  frequent  the  club, 
and  Godfrey  had  an  uncomfortable  consciousness  that  he 
was  often  hovering  near  him,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  the  young  man  was  watching  his  play. 

As  this  dawned  upon  him  more  forcibly,  he  grew 
alarmed,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  play  fairly  for  a  time, 
to  disarm  suspicion.  But  the  consequence  of  this  manoeu- 
vre was  that  he  lost  heavily.  Terrified  at  this  result,  he 
resolved  to  win  back  some  part  of  his  money  in  his  accus- 
tomed manner,  and  then  to  go  home  for  awhile  till  this 
young  spy  should  have  disappeared.  He  ascertained  that 
he  was  one  of  the  attaches  belonging  to  the  Embassy, 
and  he  also  ascertained  that  the  ambassador's  visit  to  Nice 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  so  that  the  club  would  only  be  for 
a  week  or  so  longer  infested  by  this  young  and  observant 
Englishman. 

Godfrey  was  very  little  at  the  chalet  now.  His  home 
was  not  to  him  what  it  had  been  in  the  days  when  we 
first  found  him  in  the  orange-grove,  playing  with  his  little 
daughters.  He  did  not  care  for  them  as  he  used.  The 
girls  were  growing  up,  and  he  was  often  made  to  feel  that 
they  were  sufferers  through  him,  as  he  had  felt  long  ago 


SEAFORTH.  257 

in  his  son's  case.  He  knew  Hester  thought  so,  he  could 
not  help  feeling  it  himself;  and  any  one  who  caused  him 
twinges  of  conscience  was  apt  to  become  distasteful  to 
him.  His  life  of  hidden  dishonesty,  too,  made  him  feel 
them  far  above  him,  and  the  incessant  excitement  in  which 
he  lived  made  the  pure  pleasures  of  his  home  insipid. 

But  a  deeper  reason  was  that  he  could  never  look  his 
wife  in  the  face  now.  He  had  so  much  on  his  conscience 
which  he  kept  concealed  from  her,  and  he  knew  well  how 
she  would  shrink  from  him,  did  she  know  all.  And, 
hardened  as  Godfrey  was,  he  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  this  even  now.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  her 
despising  him  and  holding  him  in  contempt.  His  old 
love  and  admiration  of  her  and  of  her  goodness  were 
strong  in  him  as  ever.  He  dared  not  meet  the  glance 
of  her  pure  eyes,  or  contrast  her  blameless  life  with  the 
pit  of  iniquity  in  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  irretrievably 
sunk. 

That  she  had  some  vague  suspicion  in  connection  with 
his  play  he  felt  almost  sure,  for  whenever  he  had  returned 
home  with  large  sums  she  had  invariably  refused  to  make 
use  of  any  part  of  them.  She  would  never  touch  a  penny 
of  the  money.  Her  own  and  her  girls'  personal  expenses 
and  those  of  the  household  she  managed  entirely  on  the 
share  of  the  allowance  apportioned  to  her  use ;  and  that, 
she  declared,  was  sufficient. 

So,  as  we  said  just  now,  Godfrey's  visits  to  the  chalet 
were  few  and  far  between.  He  had  not  been  there  for  at 
least  three  weeks,  when  the  resolution  to  which  he  had 
come,  with  regard  to  the  importance  of  being  absent  from 
the  club  for  a  little  while,  made  him  suddenly  leave  Nice 
and  take  his  way  home. 

The  morning  after  Hester's  interview  with  CoHn,  when 

22* 


25g  SEAFORTH. 

they  all  met  at  breakfast,  she  watched  Olive  narrowly,  and 
she  fancied  there  was  a  shyness  and  a  tremulousness  in 
her  manner  to  Colin  which  she  had  never  seen  her  show 
to  any  one  else.  She  found  herself  wondering  whether 
the  child  had  already,  and  in  so  short  a  time,  surrendered 
her  young  affections. 

Her  revery  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  hasty  footsteps 
in  the  garden.  They  ascended  the  steps  of  the  balcony, 
and  some  one  entered  the  room  by  the  window. 

"  Papa  !"  cried  the  girls. 

"  How  are  you  all?"  said  a  voice  that  Colin  thought 
he  knew,  and  he  looked  round. 

As  the  new-comer's  eye  met  those  of  the  young  man 
who  was  sitting  so  happily  with  his  wife  and  daughters, 
he  started  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  He  turned  white  to 
the  very  lips,  and,  clinging  tightly  for  support  to  the  back 
of  the  chair  nearest  him,  he  breathed  hard  and  fast,  utter- 
ing something  between  a  curse  and  an  exclamation.  And 
at  the  same  moment  there  burst  upon  Colin  the  appalling 
conviction  that  the  gambler  at  Nice  and  Godfrey  Seaforth 
were  one  and  the  same  person,  and  that  the  man  he  was 
seeking  to  destroy  was  Olive's  father ! 


SEAFORTIL  259 


CHAPTER    LII. 

WHAT   DOES   IT  ALL   MEAN? 

GODFREY  SEAFORTH  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 
He  put  on  his  most  civil  and  cordial  manner,  and,  ad- 
vancing to  the  young  man  as  if  he  had  never  seen  him 
before,  he  bade  him  welcome  to  his  poor  chalet,  and  de- 
clared with  great  warmth  that  any  friend  of  his  wife  and 
daughters  must  be  his  friend  too.  Colin  received  these 
overtures  as  calmly  as  he  could,  but  he  was  so  overcome 
by  the  discovery  he  had  made  that  he  could  only  find 
voice  to  express  his  thanks  in  a  confused  and  incoherent 
manner. 

Godfrey  then  turned  to  his  daughters,  and  told  them 
to  entertain  their  guest  by  showing  him  the  surrounding 
country,  and  specially  mentioned  a  certain  view  to  which 
he  wished  them  to  conduct  him,  and  which  was  at  some 
distance. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  upon  the  three  girls 
and  Colin,  Godfrey's  manner  changed.  He  looked  ner- 
vous and  confused,  but  he  offered  his  wife  no  explanation 
of  what  had  taken  place.  His  chief  object  seemed  to  be 
to  avoid  meeting  her  eye. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  Hester,"  he  said,  in  an  odd,  confused 
way.  "I  shall  go  and  lie  down  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  try  to  sleep.  Will  you  see  that  no  one  comes  there 
to  disturb  me  for  the  next  two  or  three  hours?" 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  after  him. 
But  he  did  not  remain  in  the  smoking-room  an  instant. 
He  went  out  by  a  back-door,  and  crept  stealthily  along 


260  SEAFORTH. 

till  his  footsteps  could  not  be  heard  by  his  wife  as  she  sat 
by  the  window  in  the  drawing-room.  Then  he  set  off 
running  as  hard  as  he  could  back  to  the  station,  which  he 
reached  just  in  time  to  throw  himself,  hot  and  exhausted, 
into  the  train.  And,  an  hour  after,  while  Hester  was 
imagining  him  to  be  asleep  in  the  smoking-room,  he 
was  sitting  in  his  usual  place  in  the  club  at  Nice,  taking 
advantage  of  Colin's  absence  to  recover  the  money  he 
had  lost  in  his  usual  unprincipled  manner. 

Now,  the  mistake  that  Godfrey  made  was  in  supposing 
Colin  to  be  the  only  one  who  was  concerned  in  trying  to 
detect  his  evil  practices.  There  were  several  others,  and 
he  was  in  fact  the  victim  of  a  plot  which  only  his  sudden 
change  of  tactics  had  for  a  time  caused  to  fall  to  the  ground. 
Colin's  temporary  absence  from  Nice,  therefore,  made  no 
real  difference  to  the  danger  he  was  in  of  being  detected. 
He  went  thus  unconscious  and  unarmed  straight  into  the 
jaws  of  the  enemy ;  and,  as  he  sat  playing,  secure  in  the 
feeling  that  the  young  spy  was  miles  away,  he  was  in 
momentary  danger  of  exposure,  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  those  who  were  ready  and  waiting  to  bring  his  double- 
dealings  to  light. 

Meanwhile,  Hester,  alarmed  beyond  measure  at  her 
husband's  manner  and  conduct,  sat  where  he  had  left 
her,  trying  to  think  it  out.  That  something  dreadful 
was  going  on  she  felt  sure.  Her  husband's  dismay  at 
seeing  Colin  convinced  her  that  such  was  the  case,  and 
also  the  effect  which  his  appearance  had  had  upon  Colin 
himself.  Godfrey's  evident  fear  of  the  young  man,  his 
anxiety  to  be  civil  to  him  and  to  make  him  remain  at  the 
chalet,  filled  her  with  misgiving.  What  could  it  all 
mean  ?  There  came  back  to  her,  too,  with  a  cold  pang, 
the  recollection  of  Colin's  words  to  Olive  as  to  the 
business  which  had  detained  him,  and  his  intention  of 


SEA  FORTH.  26l 

unearthing  a  plot,  or  words  t6  that  effect.  Could  it  be — 
oh,  horrible  thought ! — that  her  husband  had  fallen  so 

low  as  to ?  and  that  Colin  was  one  of  his  victims? 

She  shuddered  and  turned  cold. 

Slow  lingering  steps  now  came  on  to  the  balcony,  and 
paused  at  the  drawing-room  window.  Hester  looked  up, 
and  saw  Olive  standing  there  in  an  attitude  which  ex- 
pressed utter  dejection,  and  with  all  the  radiancy  gone 
out  of  her  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  she  inquired,  anxiously. 

Olive's  pride  struggled  for  a  moment  with  her  wounded 
feelings.  She  tried  to  say,  "Nothing,"  but  it  would 
not  do. 

"  He  has  gone  !"  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"He!"  exclaimed  Hester.  "Who?  Not  Colin 
Fraser,  surely  !" 

Her  thoughts  for  the  moment  were  all  of  her  husband, 
and  she  was  terrified  for  his  sake. 

Olive  bowed  her  head  :  she  could  not  steady  her  voice 
to  speak. 

"  Where  has  he  gone?"  exclaimed  Hester;  "what  did 
he  say?" 

"Oh,  mother,"  answered  Olive,  "he  said  nothing. 
He  gave  no  reason  at  all.  He  suddenly  said  he  must 
catch  the  train  to  Nice,  and  he  rushed  off  without  saying 
good-by  or  telling  me  when  he  would  come  back  again." 

Hester  looked  pityingly  at  the  poor  girl's  quivering  lips 
and  glistening  eyes,  and  murmured  to  herself,  "  Poor 
Olive!  Poor  little  Oily!"  For  it  was  clear,  too  clear 
to  her.  Colin  was  gone  without  a  word  of  explanation, 
without  a  word  of  farewell,  without  coming  to  her  for 
the  answer  to  the  request  he  had  made  her  last  night,  and 
which  she  had  promised  to  give  him  to-day.  Yes  :  it 
was  quite  clear.  There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to 


262  SEA  FORTH. 

the  reason  of  his  abrupt  departure.  He  had  recognized 
Godfrey,  and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  daughter 
of  such  a  man ;  he  had  no  longer  any  desire  to  connect 
limself  with  the  family. 

But,  even  while  her  thoughts  were  full  of  Olive,  she 
felt  her  husband  ought  at  once  to  know  the  guest  had 
returned  to  Nice.  Much  m.ght  be  hanging  upon  it. 

"  Go,  my  darling,"  she  whispered  to  Olive,  "go  to  the 
smoking-room,  and  tell  your  father  I  want  him  to  come 
and  speak  to  me  directly." 

"  I  don't  think  papa  is  there,"  answered  Olive.  "We 
saw  him  about  an  hour  ago  running  with  all  his  might 
towards  the  station." 

Hester  quickly  turned  away  her  head,  that  her  child 
should  not  see  the  effect  of  her  unexpected  announcement. 
She  hastily  left  the  room,  and  went  to  the  smoking-room. 
Alas !  she  found  Olive's  information  was  correct.  There 
was  no  one  there ;  and  she  realized  with  a  sharp  pang 
that  her  husband  had  purposely  deceived  her. 

Colin  Fraser  all  this  time  was  chafing  at  the  little  sta- 
tion, having  missed  the  train  by  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
The  moment  Olive  had  innocently  pointed  out  to  him  her 
father's  figure  tearing  in  the  direction  of  the  station,  he 
had  abruptly  left  her  side,  and  torn  after  him.  His  in- 
tention was  to  warn  him  of  the  plot  which  was  being 
concocted  against  him  at  Nice,  and  to  persuade  him  to 
remain  where  he  was.  He  strained  every  nerve  to  reach 
the  station ;  but  in  vain :  hard  as  he  tried,  he  was  too 
late,  and  arrived  to  find  the  train  had  started.  Detained 
thus  for  an  hour  or  more,  it  was  past  mid-day  before  Colin 
reached  Nice. 

His  plan  now  was  to  try,  by  all  the  means  in  his  power, 
to  persuade  his  friends  to  give  up  the  idea  of  exposing 
Godfrey  Seaforth, — to  announce  to  them  his  intention  of 


SEA  FORTH,  263 

withdrawing  altogether  from  the  plot,  and  to  beg  them  to 
do  the  same.  Should  he  find  them  unwilling,  he  intended 
to  urge  his  request  on  the  ground  that  it  was  to  him  now 
a  personal  and  family  matter,  since  he  had  made  the  dis- 
covery that  the  gambler  was  his  stepfather's  own  brother. 
He  went  straight  to  the  club,  but  found  he  was  too  late. 
It  was  all  over !  Godfrey  Seaforth  had  been  detected, 
exposed,  disgraced,  and  had  disappeared  no  one  knew 
where. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

IN   THE   GARDENS   OF   MONACO. 

STRUCK  dumb  with  consternation,  Colin  left  the  club, 
and  took  his  way  back  to  the  station.  He  supposed  that 
most  likely  Godfrey  would  return  home,  and  the  hope  of 
being  of  some  use  to  the  unhappy  family  made  him  de- 
termine to  return  to  the  chalet  also.  His  supposition 
proved  correct,  for  he  spied  a  skulking  form  disappearing 
into  a  carriage  of  the  waiting  train,  and  he  got  into  the 
next  compartment. 

But  the  glimpse  he  had  had  of  Godfrey  Seaforth's  face 
filled  him  with  vague  alarm.  The  idea  of  that  awful  face 
appearing  in  the  orange-grove  made  him  quite  giddy  for 
a  moment.  It  seemed  to  him  like  Sin  entering  Paradise 
and  blighting  forever  the  happiness  of  its  pure  and  inno- 
cent inhabitants. 

To  Colin's  surprise,  when  the  train  stopped  at  the  little 
station,  no  one  got  out  from  the  next  carriage.  What 
could  this  mean?  With  a  dread  upon  him  of  impending 
trouble,  Colin  determined  not  to  leave  the  train.  He 


264  SEAFORTH. 

would  follow  Godfrey  Seaforth,  and  keep  watch  over  him. 
He  felt  it  was  not  safe  to  leave  him,  and  that  he  ought, 
for  the  family's  sake,  to  find  out  where  he  was  going, 
and  what  he  was  going  to  do. 

On  the  first  head  he  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  When 
the  train  arrived  at  Monte  Carlo,  Godfrey  was  out  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  disappeared  in  the  crowd  so  rapidly  that  Colin 
lost  sight  of  him.  However,  he  got  out  also,  and  joined 
the  crowd  which  swarmed  up  the  steps  to  the  gaming- 
establishment,  and  took  his  way  to  the  tables.  The  salon 
dejeu  was  crowded ;  but  all  the  same  he  soon  spied  the 
figure  of  which  he  was  in  search,  seating  itself  at  the 
rouge-et  noir  table,  and  about  to  begin  to  play. 

Godfrey  Seaforth's  eyes  had  a  wild,  unnatural  look  about 
them,  and  he  seemed  strangely  excited.  Afraid  of  attract- 
ing his  attention,  and  yet  so  alarmed  by  his  appearance  as 
to  be  more  determined  than  ever  not  to  leave  him,  Colin 
went  on  to  the  roulette  table  for  about  half  an  hour,  and 
then  returned  to  the  r0uge-tt-tt0irboaxd.  Yes ;  still  there ; 
still  playing.  Playing  heavily,  madly,  desperately;  losing 
heavily,  too. 

Colin  then  left  the  salon  de  jeu,  went  into  the  ball- 
room, and  sat  down  there  to  await  the  course  of  events. 
The  band  was  playing  in  its  usual  entrancing  manner, 
and,  carried  away  on  the  wings  of  the  music,  Colin's 
thoughts  were  soon  set  moving  with  a  mixture  of  tremu- 
lous happiness  and  a  dull  sense  of  pain,  when  suddenly  he 
sees  him  coming. 

How  awful  he  looks !  There  is  a  nameless  terror  on  his 
face,  and  a  look  of  despair  in  his  eye.  Hurrying  through 
the  ball-room,  gliding  from  behind  one  marble  column  to 
another,  he  passes  through  the  hall,  and,  stealing  past  the 
tall,  grave  men  in  their  blue  and  red  liveries  laced  with 
gold,  goes  out  through  the  open  door  into  the  gardens. 


SEAFOR77I.  26$ 

And  here  Colin,  though  he  had  followed  him  as  quickly 
as  he  dared,  loses  sight  of  him. 

But  the  reader  can  follow  him  still.  Stealing  along, 
with  that  nameless  expression  of  fear  and  horror  on  his 
face ;  skulking  like  a  thief,  through  the  public  walks,  till 
he  comes  to  a  more  secluded  spot,  where  he  halts,  and 
with  nerveless,  trembling  hands  feels  in  his  breast-pocket 
and  takes  out  a  pistol.  .  .  . 

All  around,  the  gorgeous  scene  of  Nature's  beauty, — 
the  tall  parasol  pine,  the  dark  cypress,  the  graceful  palm, 
bright  orange,  and  fantastic  fig-tree  ;  the  luxuriant  growth 
of  wild  geranium,  myrtle,  oleander,  cactus,  and  Indian 
fig;  above,  the  cloudless  sky;  and  below,  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean  !  So  fair  the  background  !  And 
in  the  foreground  a  dishonored,  despairing  man,  flying 
from  ruin  and  disgrace  into  ruin  and  crime  more  dis- 
graceful still. 

The  loveliest  place  in  all  the  world, — and  the  wick- 
edest !  Never  had  the  sky  been  more  cloudless,  nor  the 
sea  more  blue ;  never  had  the  surroundings  looked  more 
pure  and  lovely;  never,  amid  the  sin  and  discord  of  earth, 
had  they  seemed  more  to  speak  of  the  peace  and  purity 
of  heaven,  than  on  that  day  and  that  hour  when  Godfrey 
Seaforth  shot  himself  in  the  gardens  of  Monaco. 


266  SEA  FORTH. 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

THE   END   OF   IT   ALL. 

IT  is  Sunday  in  the  little  chalet.  Mother  and  daughters 
have  been  reading  the  Church  Prayers;  and  now  the  three 
girls  are  at  the  piano,  singing  hymns. 

They  are  singing  the  hymn  to  the  dying  year.  Hester, 
sitting  by  the  window,  gazing  out,  shudders,  she  hardly 
knows  why,  as  the  solemn  refrain  falls  upon  her  ear, — 

"  As  the  tree  falls,  so  must  it  lie, 
As  the  man  lives,  so  must  he  die." 

But  a  sudden  change  was  given  to  her  thoughts  by  the 
opening  of  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  the  cry  of  joy  with 
which  Olive  left  the  piano  and  sprang  forward.  Sur- 
prised, Hester  turned  round,  and  saw  Colin  Fraser  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway.  But,  though  he  took  Olive's  hand 
in  his,  there  was  no  answering  look  of  joy  in  his  eye.  He 
looked  at  Hester,  and  said,  "Send  them  away,  and  let 
me  speak  to  you  alone." 

There  was  something  in  his  whole  aspect,  in  the  look 
of  horror  which  still  pervaded  his  face,  that  made  her 
feel  that  something  fearful  had  happened.  She  came  up 
to  him  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  girls.  "You  have 
come  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  quietly,  as  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  "  that  something  has  happened  to  my 
husband." 

And,  sitting  down,  as  gently  as  he  could,  he  told  her 
all. 

It  had  come,  then  !     The  blow  had  at  last  fallen  !     The 


SEA  FORTH.  267 

fears  and  forebodings  she  had  always  had,  the  presenti- 
ment ever  in  her  mind,  had  at  last  come  to  their  fulfil- 
ment. The  terrible  lesson  which  she  had  always  felt  he 
must  at  last  be  called  upon  to  learn, — here  it  was  ! 

But,  O  God  !  in  her  wildest  moments  she  had  never 
thought  of  such  untold  horror  as  this  !  Never  could  she 
have  believed  him  to  have  fallen  so  low.  Never  could 
she  have  believed  him  to  be  capable  of  this.  Such  fearful 
rebellion  against  his  Maker;  no  moral  sense,  no  con- 
science,— nothing  !  No  feeling  for  her,  even,  nor  for  the 
disgrace  he  was  bringing  upon  his  family  and  handing 
down  to  his  children, — the  heritage  of  unutterable  shame. 

And  so  this  was  the  end  of  it  all !  It  was  always  to 
end  like  this.  All  her  thought  and  care  wasted ;  all  her 
prayers  thrown  away;  all  her  influence  vain.  All  her 
ceaseless  endeavors  to  lead  him  into  the  right  path,  all 
her  silent  hours  of  agonizing  intercession, — all  to  end 
like  this !  A  disgraced  life,  a  dishonored  name,  and 
death  by  his  own  hand  at  last.  God  had  indeed  taken 
the  pruning-knife  into  his  own  hand  ;  the  rock  was  disin- 
tegrated, but,  O  God  !  how  could  it  grow  anything  now! 

Gradually,  as  she  sped  along  in  the  train  with  Colin  on 
her  way  to  Monaco,  she  grew  calm  enough  to  be  thankful 
that  he  had  not  died  on  the  spot,  had  not  been  cut  off  in 
a  moment, — that,  though  dying,  he  was  not  yet  dead. 

Faithful  to  nothing,  true  to  no  promise,  bound  by  no 
laws,  yet  still,  in  the  old  days,  he  had  seemed  sometimes 
to  listen  to  her  instructions,  though  he  never  retained  or 
acted  upon  them.  Though  he  would  talk  and  act  the 
next  day  as  if  she  had  said  nothing  the  day  before,  yet 
she  had  felt  sure  she  had  at  the  time  made  some  faint  im- 
pression. She  had  been  able  sometimes  to  bring  to  bear 
all  her  influence  upon  him,  to  rouse  his  conscience  and  to 
get  at  his  best  feelings  for  a  transient  fit  of  earnestness, 


268  SEA  FORTH. 

under  the  power  of  which  he  would  sometimes  make 
promises  and  form  resolutions.  Oh  for  a  transient  fit  of 
earnestness  now  !  which  would  not,  dying  as  he  was,  have 
time  to  pass  away,  and  under  the  influence  of  which  he 
might  pass  repenting  into  the  presence  of  his  Maker. 
Oh  that  he  might  yet  find  a  place  for  repentance,  if  he 
sought  it  carefully  with  tears  ! 

Might  she  not,  perhaps,  find  him  changed  by  the  awful 
catastrophe  ?  Might  this  horrible  event  be  an  answer  to 
her  prayers  after  all?  Far  from  its  being  a  proof  that 
God  had  forsaken  him,  might  it  not  be  one  of  his  pur- 
poses concerning  him,  that  he  should  fall  into  the  very 
depths,  because  nothing  less  than  sinking  into  such  utter 
vileness,  and  becoming  such  an  object  of  horror  and  de- 
testation even  to  himself,  could  rouse  him  to  a  sense  of 
what  he  was,  and  of  what  iniquity  he  was  capable  ?  Some- 
thing she  had  heard  or  read  of,  and  it  had  fixed  itself  in 
her  mind,  of  God  sometimes  making  use  of  a  terrible  fall 
to  reveal  a  sinner  to  himself;  that,  sin  being  a  disease, 
the  man  is  not  always  conscious  of  his  state ;  that  he  goes 
on  from  day  to  day,  and  no  one,  himself  included,  is 
aware  how  sinful  he  is  ;  that  God  then  lets  him  fall  to  the 
very  depths,  to  show  him  to  himself  and  to  others  as  he 
really  is,  that,  realizing  by  his  fall  all  the  wickedness  of 
which  he  is  capable,  he  may  look  to  God  to  raise  him  up 
out  of  the  pit  into  which  he  has  sunk ;  and  so,  by  his 
very  fall  he  rises  ! 

A  messenger  was  waiting  at  the  station  at  Monte  Carlo, 
with  a  note  from  the  doctor  to  say  his  patient  was  still  alive ; 
and  they  proceeded  at  once  to  tne  hotel.  "  II  demamle 
madame  a  chaque  instant"  said  the  kind  old  doctor  as  he 
met  her  at  the  door,  and  held  both  her  hands  for  a  moment 
in  sympathizing  pity.  And  then  he  led  her  into  the  cham- 
ber of  death,  and  left  her  alone  with  her  husband. 


SEA  FORTH.  269 


CHAPTER    LV. 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 

LOOKING  down  upon  him  as  he  lay,  wandering,  mut- 
tering, unconscious  of  her  presence,  a  shrinking  fear  came 
over  her,  and  her  hopes  died  away.  It  was  not  that  she 
shrank  herself  from  the  polluted  and  blood-stained  man ; 
it  was  no  physical  fear.  It  was  the  fear  suggested  by  the 
words  of  the  hymn  her  girls  had  been  so  lately  singing, 
and  which  kept  repeating  themselves  in  her  brain : 

"  As  the  tree  falls,  so  must  it  lie  ; 
As  the  man  lives,  so  must  he  die ; 
As  the  man  dies,  so  must  he  be, 
All  through  the  days  of  eternity." 

It  seemed  to  her  the  voices  of  his  own  children  were 
ringing  the  knell  of  their  father's  hopes  of  salvation. 
For  it  seemed  so  impossible  he  should  be  otherwise  than 
he  had  always  been,  so  certain  that  death  in  itself  can 
work  no  sudden  and  mysterious  change.  The  conviction 
came  over  her  more  surely  than  ever  that  death  is  in  no 
sense  an  end,  but  merely  an  event,  an  episode,  a  develop- 
ment, in  the  course  of  the  life  which  begins  here  and 
continues  throughout  eternity  ;  that  as  it  finds  the  man, 
so  will  it  leave  him;  he  that  is  holy,  holy  still ;  he  that  is 
filthy,  filthy  still. 

Yet  she  could  not  but  feel  she  had  no  right  to  murmur 
or  complain.  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he 
also  reap.  He  had  sowed  to  the  flesh,  and  he  had  reaped 
the  reward  of  his  sowing. 

23* 


270  SEAFORTH. 

Yes,  Godfrey  Seaforth's  punishment  was  natural,  not 
arbitrary.  For  God's  moral  laws  and  judgments  are 
as  fixed  and  unalterable  as  the  unchangeable  laws  of 
nature.  To  the  infringement  of  every  law,  moral  as  well 
as  natural,  its  own  penalty ;  and  man,  even  here  below, 
can  no  more  escape  the  penalty  annexed  to  the  infringe- 
ment of  God's  moral  law  than  can  he  who  puts  his  hand 
into  the  flame  escape  being  burnt,  or  he  who  throws  him- 
self from  the  roof  of  his  dwelling  escape  being  dashed  to 
pieces. 

And  Godfrey  had  not  escaped  the  penalties  of  the  god- 
less life  he  had  led.  He  had  sown  to  the  flesh,  and  of 
the  flesh  he  had  reaped  corruption.  He  had  shut  out 
God  and  love  from  his  life,  and  God's  punishment  for  this 
was  the  hardening  of  the  heart.  Corruption  and  hardness 
of  heart, — these  were  the  penalties  annexed  to  such  a 
course,  and  they  had  led  him  to  deterioration,  and  de- 
terioration to  dishonor,  and  dishonor  to  disgrace,  and 
disgrace  to  crime,  till  he  had  ended  in  this  last  mad  act, 
this  laying  violent  hands  himself  on  the  life  God  had 
given  him,  and  which  he  had  so  wasted  and  misused. 

She  bent  over  him,  and  listened  trembling  to  what  he 
was  saying,  dreading  what  she  might  hear.  She  caught 
her  own  name,  over  and  over  again  her  own  name.  As 
far  as  she  could  gather  the  meaning  of  his  rambling  and 
incoherent  utterances,  his  mind  had  travelled  back  to  the 
early  and  happiest  days  of  their  married  life, — before 
Godfrey  was  born.  And,  as  his  speech  grew  more  intelli- 
gible, she  realized  with  wonder  and  gratitude  that  he  was 
recalling  and  repeating  some  of  her  own  old  words  of 
warning  and  instruction.  Earnest  words  of  hers,  un- 
heeded at  the  time,  seemed  to  come  crowding  back  upon 
his  mind,  and  fell  from  his  lips  in  confused  and  rambling 
speech.  Presently,  as  his  mind  got  clearer,  it  reverted  to 


SEAFORTH.  271 

more  recent  events,  and  to  the  last  dire  scene.  With  this 
recollection,  he  seemed  to  be  seized  with  mortal  dread 
and  terror,  and  he  tossed  about  wildly,  and  called  loudly 
upon  her  to  help  and  save  him. 

"Is  she  coming?"  he  cried;  but  he  was  not  wandering 
now.  "  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  W/7/she  come  to  me 
now  ?  Come  to  such  a ' ' 

"Godfrey,"  she  said,  softly,  "I  am  here." 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  notice,  but  the  sound  of 
her  voice  must  have  affected  him  somehow,  for  he  burst 
out  wildly,  "  Hester  !  I  am  lost !  save  me  !  I  am  lost  for- 
ever,— blood-stained,  guilty!" 

Then  there  arose  her  soft  voice  in  the  silence : 
"  'Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as 
snow.'  Godfrey,  dear  Godfrey,  I  am  here." 

"Hester!"  he  cried,  suddenly  perceiving  her,  and 
trying  to  hold  out  his  arms.  "Angel  of  my  life,  have 
you  come  to  such  a  wretch  as  I  ?  Oh,  Hester  !  I  have 
spoiled  your  life  for  you,  and  do  you  love  me  still  ?  Save 
me,  Hester  !  I  am  lost !  lost  forever  !" 

He  seemed  in  an  agony  of  terror,  and  the  cold  drops 
of  perspiration  stood  upon  his  brow.  He  clung  to  her, 
imploring  her  to  pray  for  him,  to  save  him  from  the  awful 
doom  which  was  impending,  to  stand  between  him  and 
God's  coming  wrath.  "You  are  pure  and  holy,"  he 
gasped,  wildly;  "all  your  life  long  you  have  never  erred. 
God  will  \iza.r  you.  Pray  me  into  heaven." 

And  at  her  quick,  though  gentle,  repudiation  of  such 
praise,  he  burst  out,  "  I  know  it !  I  have  always  known 
it.  Have«I  not  watched  you  all  these  years?" 

Then  she  listened  with  almost  terrified  thankfulness  to 
his  incoherent  assurances  that  he  believed,  he  always  had 
believed,  in  God,  and  Christ,  and  goodness,  though  he 
had  never  acted  on  his  belief, — that  he  could  not  but  do 


272 


SEAFORTH. 


so  in  the  sight  of  a  life  like  hers.  He  had,  he  told  her. 
had  holiness  ever  in  his  presence,  her  life  had  revealed  to 
him  a  life  hid  with  Christ  in  God.  She  had  acted  the 
Bible  in  her  daily  life,  not  talking  about  it,  but  habitually 
living  out  the  truths  and  principles  which  it  taught,  by 
her  gentle  Christ-like  temper,  by  her  untiring  patience, 
by  her  forbearance  under  his  sore  provocation  ;  by  her 
bravery,  too,  her  courage  in  resisting  him  when  he  wished 
her  to  act  in  a  way  her  conscience  could  not  approve,  by 
her  calm  grand  continuance  in  the  path  from  which  he 
had  tried  to  turn  her.  She  had  not  preached,  nor  nagged, 
nor  lectured,  but  she  had  steadily  and  consistently  acted. 
He  had  "  not  obeyed  the  word,  but  without  the  word  he 
had  been  won  by  the  conversation  of  his  wife."  Ay, 
there  is  neither  speech  nor  language,  but  their  voices  are 
heard ;  the  voices  of  such  wives  are  heard  at  last. 

Thank  God  !  those  years  of  thought  and  care  and 
striving  had  not  been  for  nothing  after  all.  Her  life  had 
not  been  wasted,  her  prayers  not  thrown  away.  She  had 
cast  her  bread  upon  the  water?,  but  she  had  found  it  after 
many  days.  It  was  almost  worth  her  long  life  of  sorrow 
and  trouble  for  an  hour  like  this,  and  as  she  sank  upon  her 
knees  she  murmured,  "  O  God  !  Thy  power  is  infinite. 
Thy  mercy  is  infinite,  too  !" 


SEA  FORTH.  273 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

GODFREY'S  CONFESSION. 

ALL  through  the  night  she  knelt  and  prayed  by  his 
side,  and  sought,  by  dwelling  on  the  simple  foundations 
of  our  faith,  to  bring  peace  to  his  mind.  Gradually  his 
face  assumed  a  calmer  expression.  But  a  troubled  look 
came  over  it  at  times,  and  he  seemed  still  to  have  some- 
thing to  say.  Was  it  physical  weakness  and  inability  to 
collect  his  thoughts,  or  the  old  moral  weakness  and  vacil- 
lation of  character  keeping  its  hold  on  him  still?  Who 
shall  say?  But  as  the  cold  gray  of  morning  dawned, 
both  were  overcome,  and  he  called  her  to  his  side  again. 

"  Now,  Hester,"  he  said,  feebly,  "  let  me  make  restitu- 
tion before  I  go." 

"  It  is  not  needful,"  she  tenderly  answered.  "  I  have 
forgiven  it  all  long,  long  ago." 

"  But  I  have  still  something  to  tell  you,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  have  not  told  you  all.  I  cannot  die  happy  till  I  have 
told  you.  I  know  you  ought  to  be  told." 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered,  soothingly. 

"Come  nearer,"  he  said.  "Come  here.  Put  your 
arm  round  me, — so.  .  .  .  Now  say  you  will  still  forgive 
me  in  spite  of  what  I  am  going  to  say.  .  .  .  Promise  that 
you  will  not  take  your  arms  away  .  .  .  but  let  me  die 
.  .  .  feeling  your  kiss  of  pardon  on  my  lips." 

"Surely,"  she  answered.     "Why  should  you  fear?" 

He  drew  her  head  down,  and  whispered  something  in 
her  ear. 
M* 


274  SEA  FORTH. 

Whiter  and  whiter  grew  her  face  as  she  listened,  more 
and  more  rigid  her  form.  Slowly  her  arms  relaxed  their 
hold  of  him,  and  a  change  came  over  her  whole  expres- 
sion, a  look  of  horror  into  her  eye. 

He  tightened  his  hold  as  he  felt  her  shrink  from  him, 
but  she  shook  herself  free,  and  started  to  her  feet.  Re- 
treating from  his  side,  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  she 
wound  her  arms  round  one  of  the  pillars  that  supported 
the  ceiling,  and  there  she  stood  motionless,  speechless, 
trembling,  with  her  head  turned  away. 

"  Hester  !"  he  moaned  ;  but  she  took  no  heed  of  him. 
She  only  turned  upon  him  for  a  moment  such  a  look  as 
Eve  might  have  turned  upon  Cain  when  he  confessed  to 
her  that  he  had  slain  his  brother  Abel. 

And  all  this  time  he  kept  moaning,  "  Forgive  me ! 
Forgive  me  !  Kiss  me  before  I  die  !" 

She  turned  away  with  a  shiver,  and,  looking  at  any- 
thing rather  than  at  him,  said  at  last,  in  a  hard,  dry 
voice, — 

"I  cannot  forgive  you,  Godfrey." 

She  hardly  sees  him,  is  barely  conscious  of  his  presence. 
There  is  another  vision  on  which  her  eyes  are  fixed.  A 
fair  young  life  blasted  !  A  life  of  hope  and  fame  and 
distinction  cut  short !  A  proud  and  honorable  career 
nipped  in  its  very  bud.  And  instead  ? — a  life  of  igno- 
miny, a  name  sullied,  a  fair  fame  stained,  young  hopes 
shattered  !  And  all  for  what  ?  To  screen  a  forger  and  a 
gambler,  who  was  to  die  by  his  own  hand  at  last. 

"  May  God  forgive  you  !"  burst  from  the  poor  mother 
in  her  agony.  "I  cannot." 

Who  can  forgive  sins  but  God  only?  True,  poor 
mother;  but  you  are  disproving  all  you  have  been  trying 
to  teach.  By  turning  away  from  the  sinful  man  in  the 
hour  of  his  extremity  you  are  darkening  the  hope  of  a 


SEA  FORTH. 


275 


dying  soul.  Is  not  your  judgment  to  him  a  reflection  of 
God's,  a  type  or  emblem  to  him  of  coming  wrath  or  com- 
ing mercy?-  Are  you  not,  by  your  attitude  of  unforgive- 
ness,  making  the  hope  of  God's  pardoning  mercy,  through 
Christ,  which  had  dawned  upon  his  soul,  seem  uncertain, 
and,  at  last,  even  incredible? 

Alas  !  poor  mother !  She  cannot  think  of  it  all  yet. 
Let  her  alone.  Wait  till  the  first  bitterness  is  overpast, 
and  then  she  will  think  on  these  things.  But  now  her 
thoughts  are  far  away.  Let  her  alone.  She  is  thinking 
of  her  boy's  calm  grand  continuance  in  the  path  of  de- 
votion and  self-sacrifice.  She  is  thinking  how  the  lessons 
taught  him  by  the  example  of  his  Lord  and  Master  have 
in  his  young  life  been  worked  out ;  how  he  has  wrought 
the  Christian  dogma  into  his  very  being,  and  probed  to 
their  depths  the  sufferings  which  come  of  sacrificing  self 
and  of  bearing  the  punishment  due  to  others.  What  he 
must  have  suffered  !  What  he  must  have  endured  !  What 
lonely,  silent  endurance !  How  grandly,  how  nobly 
borne ! 

The  thought  of  his  young  courage  and  devotion,  all 
founded  on  a  mistake,  affected  her  suddenly,  and  she 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  Let  her  alone.  It  will  all 
come  right  now.  Shall  she  be  less  noble  than  he  ?  Ah  ! 
he  has  left  her  far  behind.  She  is  still  struggling,  sinful 
and  earth-bound.  And  he  ?  He  has  long  ago  turned  his 
back  on  the  struggle  and  joined,  even  on  earth,  the  noble 
army  of  martyrs.  Shall  his  devotion  be  fruitless,  and  his 
desire  to  screen  his  father  in  vain  ?  Shall  the  father  he 
has  bled  for  die,  after  all,  unblessed  and  unforgiven? 
Shall  it  be  thus  that  she,  his  mother,  shall  repay  him  for 
his  life  of  devotion  and  his  years  of  uncomplaining  self- 
sacrifice? 

"  Oh,  Godfrey  !  Godfrey  !"  she  cried,  suddenly  throw- 


276  SEA  FORTH. 

ing  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed  and  hiding  her  face, 
"  how  could  you  ?  How  could  you  ? ' ' 

It  has  been  a  hard  and  terrible  struggle,  but  it  is  over 
now.  And  the  reward  shall  surely  come.  She  wound 
her  forgiving  arms  round  him  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his 
brow.  And  as  she  did  so  it  came  : 

"Hester  .  .  ."  faintly  gasped  the  dying  man,  "  I  ask 
you  to  forgive  me  .  .  .  for  our  boy 's  sake  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER    LVIL 
GODFREY'S  TWENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY. 

AT  LAST  !  At  last  the  day  has  come, — the  day  for 
which  Lord  Seaforth  has  been  waiting  these  many  weary 
months,  these  three  long  years.  It  is  Godfrey's  twenty- 
fifth  birthday.  Everything  is  ready,  and  before  the  day 
is  over  Lord  Seaforth  will  have  set  his  hand  and  seal  to 
the  document  which  cuts  Godfrey  off  forever  from  the 
property,  and  makes  little  Joan  one  of  the  greatest  heir- 
esses in  England. 

It  is  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  Lord  Seaforth  is  sitting 
in  the  library,  busy  with  many  thoughts,  glancing  every 
now  and  then  at  the  unsuspecting  heiress,  who  is  busy 
to-day  with  many  thoughts  too. 

Yes,  the  day  has  come  !  This  day  Godfrey  is  to  reap 
the  reward  of  his  sowing.  Yet  it  is  not  a  day  of  joy 
and  triumph  after  all.  He  had  hoped  it  would  be,  but 
now  that  it  has  come  all  his  feelings  are  of  sorrow  and 
regret. 

He  has  been  hardening  his  heart  against  him  all  these 


SEAFO-RTH. 


277 


years,  trying  to  shut  him  out  from  his  life  and  thoughts, 
steeling  himself  against  him  to  the  very  utmost.  In  vain  ! 
Just  as  he  had  persuaded  himself  he  was  beginning  to 
forget  him,  a  sharp  pang  would  strike  his  heart  as  his  eye 
rested  on  the  empty  chair  where  he  had  been  wont  to 
watch  him  for  hours  sitting,  his  handsome  face  bent  over 
his  book,  the  leaves  turning  at  intervals ;  and  a  craving 
longing  to  see  him  once  more,  to  hear  something  of  him, 
would  overpower  him.  What  was  he  doing?  How  was 
he  living  ? 

It  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  find  out.  The 
lawyers  connected  with  the  entail  of  course  knew;  but 
he  had  refused  to  allow  himself  to  make  any  inquiries. 
So  much,  at  any  rate,  he  could  make  himself  do :  he 
could  act  the  hard  and  relentless  tyrant,  though  he  could 
not  feel  any  satisfaction  in  doing  it, — though  righteous 
indignation  and  love  of  retribution  had  no  place  in  his 
heart. 

It  was  all  forced  ;  not  natural.  No  wonder.  He  was 
doing  that  hard  and  difficult  thing, — fighting  against  his 
own  nature. 

Still  did  he  imagine  he  could  conquer  it.  He  did 
not  know  himself  yet.  He  was  an  example  of  the  theory 
that  we  do  not  know  ourselves  as  others  know  us :  for  he 
had  not  yet  gauged  the  strength  and  tenacity  of  his  own 
feelings,  as  his  wife  had  gauged  them  long  ago.  His 
own  intensity  of  affection  and  unchanging  fidelity  were 
too  much  for  him.  Here,  now,  on  this  long-looked-for 
day,  he  knows  in  himself  that  he  loves  Godfrey  still ! 

Another  glance  at  his  daughter.  He  must  not  think 
any  more.  He  must  speak  to  her  at  once  and  get  it 
over. 

"Joan,"  he  said,  "are  you  aware  that  you  have  this 
day  become  one  of  the  greatest  heiresses  in  England  ? 
24 


278  SEAFORTH. 

This  day,  the  twenty-sixth  of  January,  the  entail  on 
the  estate  is  by  mutual  agreement  cut  off,  and  Seaforth 
is  settled  on  you." 

Joan  flushed  crimson,  and  clasped  her  hands  together. 
She  realized,  quick  as  lightning,  what  this  meant,  and 
a  tumult  of  indignation  overpowered  her. 

Her  father  took  these  signs  of  surprise  and  emotion  for 
natural  feeling  at  the  thought  of  such  a  weight  of  honor 
and  glory  falling  to  her  share. 

He  went  on  to  give  an  account  of  his  arrangements 
with  the  lawyers,  whom  he  now  proposed  to  summon, 
and  tried  to  reassure  her  by  hinting  faintly  that  she 
would  not  have  to  bear  the  burden  of  responsibility 
alone.  He  tried  to  convey  to  her  distantly  that  there 
was  a  possibility  of  his  receiving  an  offer  for  her  hand 
from  a  quarter  where  he  would  be  ready  to"t)esto\v  it. 

Joan  sat  very  still  till  he  had  finished.  By  that  time 
she  had  had  time  to  control  herself  and  to  resolve  upon 
a  course  of  action.  Meanwhile,  her  visit  to  Ainsbro' 
and  all  that  it  had  been  intended  to  bring  about  became 
clear  to  her. 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  she  said,  quietly  and  firmly. 

Her  tone  attracted  Lord  Seaforth's  attention,  and 
he  looked  up  quickly.  He  was  surprised  at  the  expres- 
sion of  quiet  determination  which  pervaded  every  line 
of  her  face. 

"  Never  marry  !"  he  exclaimed  ;   "  and  why  ?" 

Joan  folded  her  hands  quietly  together,  but  she  made 
no  answer. 

He  looked  at  her  again,  and,  as  he  looked,  for  the  first 
time  it  struck  him  how  like  her  eyes  were  to  his  own,  to 
Godfrey's,  and  to  every  other  Seaforth's.  For  the  first 
time  he  felt  that  this  was  his  child,  a  part  of  himself;  and 
at  the  same  moment  he  read  his  own  spirit  of  uncom- 


SEA  FORTH.  279 

promising  determination  in  the  eyes  of  his  daughter. 
He  felt  his  position  to  be  very  perplexing. 

"You  are  very  young,"  he  said,  rather  nervously. 
"All  young  girls  talk  like  that." 

No  answer. 

"  You  are  only  eighteen.  You  will  change  your  mind 
some  day." 

Still  no  answer ;  and  Lord  Seaforth  was  getting  more 
and  more  perplexed. 

"Supposing,  then,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that,  for  the 
sake  of  the  argument,  we  say  that  you  will,  as  you  affirm, 
never  marry :  the  fact  remains  the  same.  You  are  still 
one  of  the  greatest  heiresses  in  England  ;  still  this  day 
the  estate  is  settled  upon  you." 

She  slightly  shook  her  head.     What  did  she  mean  ? 

"You  can  settle  it  on  me  if  you  please,"  she  answered, 
in  a  low  voice  ;  "  but  it  will  only  come  to  the  same  thing : 
I  should  only  give  it  back." 

"  Give  it  back  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  and  to  whom  ?" 

"  To  him  who  alone  has  a  right  to  it,"  she  answered, 
firmly;  "  to  Godfrey  Seaforth,  your  nephew  and  rightful 
heir." 

She  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  as  she  spoke  and  looked 
her  father  full  in  the  face.  Her  small  head  was  erect  now 
with  pride  and  defiance.  She  stood  revealed  a  champion 
for  the  rights  of  the  man  she  loved  ! 

Looking  full  into  the  depths  of  her  dark  eyes,  and 
taught  by  his  own  experience,  something  electric  com- 
municated itself  to  Lord  Seaforth.  In  that  moment  he 
guessed  her  secret !  He  read  his  own  story  in  hers, — 
something  of  his  own  unchanging,  never-dying  fidelity  to 
the  object  once  loved, — and  realized  that  history  was 
repeated  in  her  life,  and  that  their  love  and  fidelity  were 
given  to  the  same  object. 


28o  SEAFORTH. 

His  heart  went  out  to  his  daughter,  and  his  very  soul 
was  wrung  with  pity  for  her  fate.  Alas  that  another 
should  have  to  pass  through  a  like  furnace  of  suffering 
and  disappointment !  Alas  that  his  own  child  should, 
like  himself,  have  misplaced  her  love  and  her  confidence, 
and  given  her  young  affections  to  one  so  utterly  un- 
worthy !  He  longed  to  help  her  and  to  comfort  her. 
What  could  he  do?  Across  the  gulf  of  their  divided 
lives  dared  he  stretch  the  bridge  of  sympathy,  the  hand 
of  fatherly  pity  and  fellow-feeling?  No!  Never.  That 
much  he  read  in  her  eyes,  in  the  proud  reserve  of  a 
neglected  child,  to  which  the  reserve  of  a  woman's  pride 
was  now  added.  No,  there  was  no  hope  of  that.  No 
words  of  his  could  wring  her  secret  from  her,  no  help  could 
by  him  be  given.  He  may  not  now  break  down  the  wall 
his  own  hand  had  raised  between  them.  Nothing  can 
undo  the  past  or  alter  the  relationship  in  which  they 
stand  to  each  other,  and  which  he  himself  had  instituted. 
He  had  given  her  nothing  in  the  past,  and  she  will  accept 
nothing  from  him  now. 

He  gazed  at  her  sadly,  yearningly,  and  then  turned 
away. 

"  Poor  child  !"  he  murmured ;  "  poor  girl !  God  help 
her  !  I  cannot." 

He  tottered  to  a  chair,  and,  sitting  down,  began  to 
think  what  was  to  be  done  next.  Here  was  Seaforth 
returned  upon  his  hands  again.  He  had  actually  lived 
to  see  it  refused  on  all  sides,  and  tossed  like  a  ball  from 
one  to  the  other !  First  Hester,  then  Godfrey,  now 
Joan.  Alike !  how  alike,  all  three !  Each  in  turn  had 
refused  the  greatness  and  the  glory  he  had  offered  to 
shower  upon  them.  Hester,  a  pensioner  on  another's 
bounty,  had  refused  it  all  without  a  thought.  Godfrey, 
equally  penniless,  had  resigned  all  his  pretensions,  with- 


SEA  FORTH.  281 

out  making  a  single  condition.  This  young  girl  was 
ready  to  do  the  same. 

What  made  them  all  so  unworldly  ?  How  came  they 
to  value  so  lightly  what  he  so  highly  prized  ?  This  will 
not  do.  He  must  not  think.  He  must  act.  He  must 
break  through  this  train  of  weak  and  sentimental  thought 
by  at  once  ringing  the  bell  and  sending  for  the  lawyers. 

He  rose,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  bell. 

Joan,  who  was  moving  away,  glanced  at  him  as  she 
left  the  room,  and  thought  how  old  and  bent  he  looked, 
and  marked  the  uncertainty  of  his  gait  and  the  trembling 
of  his  hands.  The  servant  entered  the  room,  bringing 
in  the  newspapers. 

Joan  was  half-way  across  the  adjoining  room,  when  she 
was  startled  by  a  curious  sound  which  fell  upon  her  ear, 
followed  by  a  heavy  fall.  Alarmed,  she  hurried  back, 
and  to  her  horror  found  her  father  lying  on  the  ground, 
stiff  and  motionless.  She  rang  the  bell  violently,  and 
then,  bending  over  his  prostrate  form,  she  strove  to  ren- 
der him  some  assistance  and  to  raise  him  from  the  ground. 
But  he  lay  like  a  stone,  cold  and  rigid.  Horrified,  she 
bent  closer  over  him,  and  as  she  did  so  her  eye  fell  upon 
the  newspaper  which  was  tightly  clutched  in  his  hand. 
And  there,  at  the  head  of  a  paragraph,  she  read  the  words, 
"  Suicide  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Seaforth  !" 


24* 


282  SEAFORTH. 

CHAPTER    LVIII. 

THE    IRONY   OF   FATE. 

TREAD  softly  in  the  darkened  chamber,  round  the  cur- 
tained bed,  where  lies  the  stricken  and  helpless  form  which 
is  all  that  remains  of  the  proud  and  self-willed  man  whose 
career  we  have  followed  for  so  long.  Tread  softly  in  the 
darkened  chamber,  nor  mock  its  sadness  with  a  smile. 

We  have  seen  him  like  a  proud  ship  sailing  on  life's 
sea,  with  sails  set  and  pennon  gayly  waving  in  the  wind, 
carrying,  as  we  know,  nor  chart  nor  compass,  secure  in 
his  own  strength  and  wisdom,  feeling  he  needed  nothing 
to  guide  him  safely.  Did  he  not  know  the  way  full  well  ? 

And  now!  Ruined,  wrecked,  shattered;  drifting,  mast- 
less  and  broken,  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds  and  waves — 
whither  ?  Into  the  dark  and  fathomless  ocean  which  rolls 
round  the  world  ? 

No,  the  doctors  say  he  will  not  die ;  the  merciful  gates 
of  death  are  not  to  open  to  him  yet ;  but  death  in  life  is 
to  be  his  portion  now.  Helpless,  hopeless,  paralyzed, 
limbs  nerveless,  and  speech  unintelligible, — there  he  lies  ! 
"Je  me  suffis." 

Oh,  the  irony  of  fate  !  How  merry  she  might  make 
her  over  a  scene  like  this  !  How  she  might  say,  like  the 
prophet  of  old,  "  Cry  aloud  !  call  upon  your  gods  !"  and 
mock  when  no  answer  came.  His  gods.  Yes,  let  him 
call  upon  them  now.  Time,  habit,  self-will,  self-respect, 
the  gods  to  whom  he  bowed,  and  in  whom  he  trusted, 
will  they  not  come  to  his  help?  In  vain !  The  thunder- 
bolt of  heaven  has  this  time  fallen  too  hot  and  heavy. 


SEA  FORTH.  283 

This  time  he  must  recognize  God's  hand ;  this  time  he 
must  bow  to  a  higher  will.  No  self-will,  phcenix-like, 
can  spring  from  such  ruin  as  this ;  and  from  the  ashes  of 
this  past  there  can  be  no  rising  again. 

Joan,  all  her  woman's  heart  now  moved  with  pity,  tends 
him  with  devoted  care.  There  is  no  doubt  in  her  mind 
that,  reading  no  further  than  the  heading  of  the  paragraph, 
he  had  jumped  at  once  to  one  conclusion  and  not  had 
time  to  realize  that  the  Godfrey  Seaforth  referred  to  was 
his  brother,  and  not  his  nephew. 

Day  by  day  she  waited  for  an  opportunity  of  enlighten- 
ing him ;  but  there  had  been  no  chance  of  it.  He  had 
never  yet  been  sufficiently  alive  to  what  was  going  on 
around  him  for  it  to  be  of  any  use  to  make  the  attempt. 

As  she  watched  and  waited,  her  own  thoughts  were  very 
full.  A  wild  hope  would  sometimes  come  across  her  that 
the  clearing  up  of  the  mystery  in  which  Godfrey's  life  was 
shrouded  might  follow  on  his  father's  death.  But  time 
went  by,  and  she  heard  no  tidings.  Still  day  after  day 
found  her  watching,  waiting,  and  hoping.  Within,  there 
was  no  change  in  her  father's  condition,  and  no  sign  or 
sound  from  without. 


284  SEAFORTH. 


CHAPTER    LIX. 

LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS. 

A  SMALL  dingy  lodging  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  with  fog  up  to  the  windows,  and  the  remains 
of  snow  on  the  opposite  roofs. 

The  very  small  fire,  which  is  slowly  dying  in  the  grate, 
does  not  contribute  much  to  the  warmth  of  the  little 
apartment,  does  not  certainly  extend  its  heat  sufficiently 
to  reach  the  young  man  who,  evidently  recovering  from 
an  illness,  is  lying  in  bed,  reading. 

A  knock  at  the  door,  and  an  ill-clad  woman-of-all-work 
comes  in  and  announces  that  the  doctor  is  below. 

"Show  him  up,  if  you  please,"  says  Godfrey,  for  it  is 
he  whom  we  find  in  this  poor  little  place. 

"And  if  you  please,  sir,"  added  the  woman,  "there's 
been  a  clergyman  after  you  more  nor  once  since  you  was 
took." 

"A  clergyman!"  said  Godfrey,  inwardly  wondering. 
"  Have  I  been  so  ill  as  that  ?" 

"And  how  are  you  this  evening?"  says  the  cheery 
voice  of  the  doctor. 

"Much  better,  I  think,"  answered  Godfrey,  extending 
a  rather  thin  hand  of  greeting.  "  Tell  me,  doctor, — for 
I  get  confused  about  dates, — have  I  been  ill  long?  And 
when  shall  I  be  able  to  begin  my  work  again  ?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  You  must  not  think  of 
work  for  a  long  time.  You  want  a  thorough  rest  of  mind 
and  body.  You  have  had  a  sharp  attack  of  fever,  brought 
on  entirely  by  over-work.  You  must  keep  quiet  and  be 


SEAFORTH.  285 

very  careful.  I  should  like  to  make  a  bonfire  of  all  your 
law-books;  and  by  the  way,"  he  added,  glancing  at  the 
fast-dying  fire,  "  they  would  not  come  amiss  to  that  poor 
affair.  What  a  wretched  attempt  for  a  raw  February  day  !" 
The  good-natured  doctor  advanced  to  the  fire  and  began 
trying  to  improve  it ;  but  the  scuttle  was  nearly  empty. 

"We  lawyers,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  smile,  "can't 
afford  to  be  ill.  No  fees,  no  fuel.  Idleness  for  some 
weeks  makes  the  exchequer  low  and  the  coal-cellar 
empty." 

"Well,  you  rest  a  little  longer,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he 
took  his  leave,  "and  you'll  get  back  to  your  work  and 
your  fees  all  the  sooner.  And  don't  read  more  than  you 
can  help,"  he  added,  eying  with  disgust  the  very  dry- 
looking  volume  on  which  Godfrey  had  been  engaged  on 
his  entrance. 

Godfrey  smiled  sadly  after  the  doctor  was  gone.  "  I 
must  read,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  took  up  his  volume 
again  :  "anything  is  better  than  thinking." 

He  lay  very  quiet  for  some  time,  but  gradually  the  book 
dropped  from  his  grasp  and  he  fell  asleep. 

Some  time  elapsed.  The  fire  flickered  a  little,  the  room 
got  darker ;  outside  the  snow  began  to  fall  again.  The 
door  opens  very  softly,  and  Hester,  arrayed  in  the  sombre 
garments  of  her  widowhood,  comes  in.  She  first  gazes 
round  the  poverty-stricken  apartment,  and  then  she  ad- 
vances almost  reverently  and  kneels  down  by  the  side  of 
the  bed.  He  is  lying  sleeping,  as  she  has  often  watched 
him  in  his  boyhood,  quietly,  peacefully,  like  a  child. 
And,  as  she  gazed,  her  heart  beat  high  with  pride  and 
wonder  that  anything  so  grand,  so  noble,  should  have 
been  cradled  in  her  arms  and  taught  at  her  knee.  And 
it  is  still  the  martyr-brow  on  which  she  gazes ;  still  does 
it  bear  the  brand  of  suspicion  and  guilt. 


286  SEA  FORTH. 

She  has  learned  from  the  woman  below  that  he  has 
been  ill  three  weeks,  so  she  knows  he  can  have  seen  no 
newspapers,  and  is  therefore  in  ignorance  of  what  has 
befallen.  She  is  almost  thankful  that  it  is  so,  glad  and 
grateful  that  hers  is  to  be  the  hand  to  remove  the  chain 
that  binds  him,  hers  the  lips  to  speak  the  words  which 
will  set  him  free.  She  glances  again  at  the  signs  of  pov- 
erty around  her,  at  the  wretched,  fast-dying  fire,  and  the 
tears  rush  to  her  eyes. 

He  stirs  in  his  sleep.  The  word  "Mother"  escapes 
from  his  lips.  Is  he  dreaming  of  the  old  days  at  home? 
She  bends  over  him,  and  he  wakes  with  her  kiss  on  his 
brow. 

"  Mother  !"  rang  out  his  voice  clear  and  joyful  in  the 
glad  surprise  of  the  first  moment ;  and  he  started  up  and 
held  out  his  hands.  But  even  as  he  spoke  recollection 
returned  to  him.  A  change  came  over  his  face,  his  hands 
dropped,  and  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  must 
be  on  his  guard,  be  firm.  She  has  come  to  wrest  his 
secret  from  him,  and  that  secret  must  not  be  wrested. 

"Godfrey,"  she  implored,  "my  own  boy,  do  not  turn 
from  me.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  speak,  but  only  to  look 
at  me." 

Slowly  he  turned  at  last,  for  his  eyes  were  longing  to 
rest  on  her  face  again.  And  his  eye  wandered  wonder- 
ing over  her  mourning  garments,  till  they  rested  on  the 
widow's  cap  which  crowned  while  it  did  not  hide  her 
still  lovely  hair. 

"Is  he  dead  f  he  whispered,  while  he  clasped  her  hands 
in  both  of  his  and  held  them  tightly. 

"He  is  dead,"  she  answered.  "He  has  told  me 
everything,  and  you  are  free,  my  darling,  from  the  bur- 
den you  have  borne  so  bravely  and  so  long!"  .  .  . 


SEA  FORTH.  287 


CHAPTER   LX. 

GODFREY'S  HISTORY. 

"  AND  now,"  said  Hester,  when  the  first  excitement 
had  a  little  subsided,  "tell  me  all  about  it.  Let  me  hear 
the  truth  at  last." 

Holding  his  hands,  she  prayed  him  to  speak  to  her 
quite  irrespective  of  the  dead  man. 

"It  can  do  him  nor  good  nor  harm,"  she  whispered. 
"And,  oh,  Godfrey,  I  am  so  weary  of  mystery  and  con- 
cealment. Henceforth  I  pray  you,  darling,  there  may  be 
no  secrets  between  us.  Tell  me  all.  In  my  turn  I  will 
tell  you  everything  which  in  your  early  youth  I  withheld 
from  you." 

Thus  urged,  Godfrey  could  not  but  consent  to  her  en- 
treaty. He  began  from  the  time  when  his  allowance 
had  been  first  settled  upon  him,  which  was  the  beginning 
of  all  his  troubles. 

It  must  have  been  very  soon  after  he  had  so  proudly 
sent  his  mother  and  sisters  his  first  check  that  the  idea  of 
forging  his  name  had  entered  into  the  mind  of  his  father. 
It  was  done  at  first  for  small  sums,  and  so  it  was  some 
time  before  Godfrey  had  noticed  any  discrepancy  in  his 
accounts.  But  by  and  by  a  very  large  sum  was  drawn, 
and  by  that  time  he  had  become  most  bewildered.  Still, 
it  was  a  long  time  before  the  truth  dawned  upon  him, 
and  even  then  he  could  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of 
his  own  senses.  How  to  act  under  the  circumstances  he 
had  been  for  a  long  while  unable  to  make  up  his  mind. 
He  did  nothing  for  a  time,  hoping  that  perhaps  it  might 


288  SEAFORTH. 

not  occur  again.  But  time  went  on ;  larger  sums  were 
drawn,  and  it  was  clear  that  if  matters  went  on  at  this 
rate  it  would  come  to  the  knowledge  of  his  uncle.  He  at 
last  made  up  his  mind  to  write  to  his  father,  to  let  him  at 
any  rate  know  that  he  was  aware  of  what  was  going  on,  and 
to  see  whether  he  could  not  work  upon  his  feelings  by  rep- 
resenting to  him  the  disgrace  into  which  he  must  shortly 
fall.  While  waiting  for  the  answer  to  this  letter,  he  had 
had  to  return  to  Seaforth ;  and  it  had  been  forwarded 
to  him  there. 

In  this  answer  his  father  did  not  attempt  to  deny  that 
he  had  drawn  these  large  sums,  but  added  that  he  con- 
sidered he  had  a  perfect  right  to  do  so.  The  money  was 
his ;  he  was  the  lawful  heir-presumptive,  deprived  of  his 
rights  by  a  freak  of  his  brother. 

After  receiving  this  letter,  hope  left  Godfrey's  breast. 
He  saw  that  his  father  was  determined  to  continue  his 
practices ;  and  as  he  knew  the  money  was  used  for  gam- 
bling purposes  he  felt  there  was  no  limit  to  the  amount 
that  might  be  drawn. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  his  first  interview  with  his  uncle 
took  place.  His  primary  care  was  to  ward  off  all  sus- 
picion from  his  father.  His  feeling  all  through  the  con- 
versation was  the  old  antagonism  against  his  uncle  for 
his  dealings  with  his  father  in  his  youth,  which  were 
the  remote  causes  of  all  his  present  trouble. 

On  his  return  to  Oxford  he  again  wrote  to  his  father, 
and  offered  to  supply  him  with  money  himself,  if  he 
would  keep  within  a  certain  sum.  He  implored  him  to 
discontinue  his  practices,  earnestly  setting  before  him 
what  an  offence  forgery  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  and 
what  terrible  disgrace  would  follow  if  he  were  discovered. 
To  this  letter  an  answer  was  returned  which  showed  God- 
frey that  the  case  was  hopeless.  His  father  upbraided 


SEAFORTH.  289 

him  with  his  words,  and  said  that  unless  he  chose  to  turn 
informant  the  discovery  would  never  be  made;  repeated 
what  he  had  said  at  first,  that  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  the 
money ;  and  added  that,  as  he  was  only  writing  his  own 
name,  he  did  not  see  how  the  act  could  in  any  way  be 
constituted  into  a  legal  offence. 

It  now  became  necessary  for  Godfrey  to  resolve  upon 
some  definite  course  of  action.  Either  all  his  own  hopes 
for  the  future  must  be  relinquished,  or  his  father  must  be 
disgraced.  There  was  no  alternative  between  the  two. 

What  an  opportunity  was  here  presented  to  him  of 
making  up  to  his  father  for  all,  and  at  the  same  time 
sparing  his  mother  the  knowledge  of  her  husband's  guilt ! 
If  it  were  such  a  blow  to  him,  Godfrey,  to  discover  that 
his  father  had  fallen  so  low,  what  would  it  be  to  her  ! — 
she  who  loved  him  so  devotedly,  and  believed  in  him  so 
firmly,  who  had  so  often,  in  Godfrey's  boyhood,  told  him 
of  the  injustice  and  harshness  with  which  his  father  had 
been  treated,  and  the  way  in  which  in  early  life  he  had 
been  mismanaged  and  misunderstood.  She  should  remain 
in  that  opinion  still.  At  all  costs  the  knowledge  should 
be  concealed  from  her.  She  should  never  know  ;  she  and 
his  little  sisters  should  be  spared  forever  the  hearing  of 
this  tale  of  guilt  and  shame. 

At  once  and  forever  his  mind  was  made  up  ;  and  when 
his  uncle  announced  to  him  his  intention  of  sending  for 
his  mother  he  resolved  at  once  to  fly.  The  thought  of 
her  arrival  hastened  the  crisis.  To  meet  her  was  impos- 
sible ;  to  keep  up  this  deception  face  to  face  with  her  a 
thing  too  difficult  to  be  attempted.  Painful  as  he  felt 
his  conduct  would  be  to  her,  he  comforted  himself  with 
the  reflection  that  he  was  sparing  her  a  yet  more  bitter 
pain. 

The  sacrifice  he  had  resolved  upon  was  thus  promptly 


290 


SEA  FORTH. 


carried  out.  Fair  name  and  character  he  sacrificed  at 
once,  relinquished  thus  all  hopes  of  a  career  of  distinc- 
tion, of  earthly  fame  and  usefulness,  left  Seaforth  secretly, 
and  went  to  London,  without  giving  himself  time  to  think. 
Once  there,  in  the  long,  objectless  days  that  followed, 
alone  in  the  crowd  of  London,  he  became  a  prey  to  a 
feeling  of  utter  dejection.  "  His  sufferings  will  be  intel- 
ligible to  any  one  who  has  ever  conceived  a  sublime 
mission  with  a  warm  heart,  and  felt  hope  and  courage  fail 
in  the  idea  of  executing  it."  He  fell  that  it  was  easy  to 
do  wonders  when  upheld  by  the  sympathy  of  those  you 
love  and  the  approval  of  those  whose  opinion  you  value, 
but  quite  another  thing  to  go  out  into  the  darkness  of 
ignominy  and  isolation  and  the  loneliness  of  suspicion 
and  misunderstanding. 

His  deepest  regret  was  little  Joan.  It  was  so  hard  that 
she  should  feel  he  had  deserted  her,  so  bitter  that  she 
should  believe  him  guilty  too.  He  grieved  so  at  the 
thought  that  she  should  regard  him  in  this  light,  and  that 
he  should  apparently  nullify  by  his  practice  all  the  precepts 
he  had  taught  her.  Could  he  communicate  with  her? 
Could  he  trust  her  with  the  secret  ?  No ;  it  could  not  be. 
It  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  must  not  dream  of  laying 
on  the  shoulders  of  another  a  burden  he  found  so  hard  to 
bear  himself.  He  could  not,  child  as  she  was,  let  her 
into  so  guilty  a  secret ;  and  her  love  for  him  might  lead 
her  some  day  to  proclaim  the  innocent  and  to  expose  the 
guilty.  No ;  she,  alas !  must  be  sacrificed  to  his  father 
too.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  her  in  com- 
plete ignorance,  like  all  the  world  beside. 

His  outlook  for  the  future  was  indeed  overwhelming, 
and  the  loneliness  and  hopelessness  of  his  position  great. 
His  life  being  all  marred,  he  would  never  be  able,  as  he 
had  always  hoped,  to  do  anything  for  his  mother  and 


SEA  FORTH.  291 

sisters.  His  chosen  path,  politics,  was  now  quite  impos- 
sible. 

But  the  rebound  of  youth  is  very  powerful,  and  after  a 
time  came  to  his  help  the  feeling  he  had  always  had,  that 
he  had  it  in  him,  born  in  him,  to  do  something,  to  be 
something,  to  make  his  own  way.  And  his  spirit  rose  at 
the  thought  of  the  difficulty.  The  more  difficulty,  the 
more  glory.  He  had  an  obstinate  feeling  within  him, 
which  would  not  be  kept  down,  that  though  that  chosen 
path  of  his  was  certainly  more  difficult  now,  though  it 
was  put  off  probably  for  many  years,  it  would  still  be  his 
one  day.  His  faith  did  not  fail  him  at  this  crisis.  He 
believed  firmly  in  God's  power  of  bringing  good  out  of 
all  this  ;  if  not  to  him,  then  to  others ;  if  not  here,  then 
hereafter.  Feeling  sure  that  out  of  this  darkness  light 
must  come  some  day,  he  stuck  steadily  to  the  measure 
of  light  he  had,  and  never  allowed  himself  to  sink  into 
despair. 

Besides,  it  was  not  all  suffering.  He  was  ever  upheld 
by  the  thought  that  he  was  screening  his  father,  and  thus 
making  many  happy;  and  to  bear  pain  instead  of,  and 
for  the  sake  of,  another,  has  in  it  a  pure  and  ennobling 
happiness  which  none  save  they  who  have  experienced  it 
know. 

But  he  felt  that  he  must  have  work.  God  would  give 
it  to  him  as  a  help.  Without  it  the  sadness  of  his  life 
would  have  been  too  overpowering  for  him  to  bear.  He 
had  his  fellowship,  and  on  that  he  felt  he  could  live,  while 
he  gave  himself  up  to  reading  and  study. 

Oh,  work  !  God's  blessing  to  many  a  weary-minded 
man.  It  is  the  idle  who  are  wretched.  Godfrey  firmly 
believed  this.  He  had  the  fixed  idea,  too,  which  lives 
in  the  breast  of  many  a  noble  and  true  man,  that  each 
man  should  live  and  work  as  if  no  one  but  himself  could 


292  SEA  FORTH. 

do  the  special  work  which  lies  to  his  hand,  and  in  the  full 
realization  that  he  has  only  a  short  and  uncertain  time  in 
which  to  do  it. 

He  now  tried  to  drown,  as  it  were,  the  sorrows  and 
regretful  longings  of  his  life  in  work.  He  began  a  course 
of  hard  reading  for  the  Bar.  He  took  a  small  lodging  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  there  he  read  and  worked  night 
and  day,  living  on  the  income  his  fellowship  gave  him, 
till  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  In  this  life  he  became  en- 
tirely engrossed.  His  love  of  reading  and  study  was  its 
great  alleviation.  "Nobody,"  as  Lord  Seaforth  had 
once  said,  "  could  be  very  unhappy  who  possessed  the 
power  of  thus  losing  self  and  being  independent  of  present 
surroundings  and  outward  circumstances."  And  it  was, 
in  a  sense,  true. 

And  yet  sometimes  in  the  evening,  sitting  in  his  little 
lodging  by  the  fire,  such  sad  thoughts  would  assail  him, 
and  such  a  sense  of  the  void  and  emptiness  in  his  heart 
and  life  come  over  him,  that  his  book  would  drop  from 
his  hand,  and  he  sit  gazing  into  the  fire  in  mute  and 
tearless  despair.  Sadly  across  him  at  such  times  would 
come  the  thought  of  little  Joan.  Stealing  unawares  into 
his  presence  would  come  the  little  figure  ;  the  great  dark 
eyes,  with  their  trusting  expression,  would  look  up  at  him 
once  more. 

How  was  she  faring  without  him?  Did  she  ever  think 
of  him  she  had  trusted,  who  had  responded  to  her  trust 
so  ill,  and  deserted  her  without  a  word  of  explanation  ? 
How  was  it  all  to  end?  Would  she  be  faithful  to  his 
memory  ?  Should  he  ever  see  her  again  ? 

At  this  point  Godfrey's  voice  grew  so  faint  and  broken 
that  Hester  had  to  bend  over  him  to  hear.  She  caught 
his  impassioned  declaration  of  his  ever-abiding  love  and 
devotion  for  his  little  cousin  ;  and,  bending  closer,  she 


SEA  FORTH.  293 

gathered  with  joy  and  thankfulness  that  all  his  fears  and 
misgivings  concerning  her  had  some  time  since  been 
turned  into  rejoicing, — that  he  had  met  her  in  the  autumn 
stillness,  and  found  that  she  loved  him  still. 

We  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  imagine  how  a  mother 
would  be  likely  to  be  affected  by  the  tale  just  told.  All 
that  we  will  say  is  that  Hester,  probably  more  than  most, 
was  moved  by  it  to  the  most  vivid,  almost  reverent,  admi- 
ration. For,  to  her,  the  loneliness  and  strength  of  silent 
endurance  had  always  seemed  the  grandest  thing  in  life ; 
and  it  was  a  most  bewildering  sensation  that  her  own 
ideal  of  all  that  was  most  noble  should  have  been  worked 
out  in  the  life  of  her  own  son. 


CHAPTER    LXI. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

HESTER  felt  that  for  the  moment  the  past  had  been 
sufficiently  dwelt  upon.  She  therefore  reserved  her  prom- 
ised recital  for  another  occasion,  and  gave  Godfrey  an 
account  of  more  recent  events.  She  explained  to  him 
that  Andrew  Fraser,  prompted  by  his  brother  Colin,  had 
never  rested  till  he  had  discovered  his  abode  and  had 
telegraphed  to  her  that  he  was  ill  with  a  fever  in  this  little 
lodging ;  that  she  and  his  sisters  had  at  once  started  for 
England,  and  been  met  on  their  arrival  by  Andrew  and 
Mr.  Cartwright ;  that  the  latter  had  most  kindly  taken 
the  three  girls  down  to  his  home  in  Warwickshire,  where 
they  were  under  the  care  of  Lady  Margaret  for  the 
present. 

25* 


294 


SEA  FORTH. 


She  was,  she  told  him,  much  perplexed  about  the  future, 
as  Lord  Seaforth  had  returned  no  answer  to  the  letters  she 
had  written  him.  She  added  that  Andrew  Fraser  had 
now  gone  down  to  Seaforth  to  seek  a  personal  interview, 
and  was  to  come  straight  here  on  his  return ;  that,  in 
short,  she  expected  him  this  evening. 

Towards  night  he  arrived. 

As  he  entered  the  room,  Hester  drew  back  to  allow  the 
young  men  to  meet  alone.  She  could  see  how  warmly 
they  grasped  each  other's  hands,  and  how  Andrew,  bend- 
ing down,  spoke  for  some  time  in  a  low,  earnest  voice, 
to  which  Godfrey  replied  by  another  warm  grasp  of  the 
hand. 

Andrew  then  placed  a  chair  for  Hester,  and,  sitting 
down  also  himself,  informed  his  astonished  listeners  that 
Lord  Seaforth  was  lying  stricken  with  paralysis,  and  that 
Godfrey  was  now,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  absolute 
master  of  everything. 

"  How  can  that  be?"  hastily  inquired  Godfrey.  "The 
entail  was  cut  off  on  my  twenty-fifth  birthday,  and  I  have 
no  more  to  do  with  Seaforth  than  you  have." 

"  L1  homme  propose ,  Dieu  dispose,"  answered  Andrew. 
"  It  was  on  that  very  day,  just  as  he  was  about  to  summon 
the  lawyers  to  sign  the  documents,  that  Lord  Seaforth  was 
suddenly  seized  with  paralysis,  and  he  has  never  spoken 
since." 

So  from  the  couch  in  the  dingy  lodging  where  he  had 
laid  himself  down,  a  needy  struggling  lawyer,  Godfrey 
was  to  rise  the  lord  of  all.  And  as  the  three  sat  together 
in  the  gathering  twilight  their  thoughts  were  very  busy 
with  the  intricate  windings  of  the  path  of  life  which  had 
led  at  last  to  this. 

"My  sister,"  said  Andrew,  at  last,  addressing  himself 
to  Hester,  "  has  desired  me  to  beg  you  and  your  daughters 


SEAFORTH.  295 

to  come  at  once  to  Seaforth,  as  she  knows  her  father 
would  have  done  long  since  had  he  been  able.  And 
your  presence,"  he  continued  to  Godfrey,  "is  very 
necessary.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  business  to  be  done, 
and  many  unopened  letters, — all  of  ours  among  the 
number." 

It  was  then  definitely  arranged  that  as  soon  as  Godfrey 
was  sufficiently  recovered  he  and  his  mother  and  sisters 
should  all  go  to  Seaforth.  The  doctors  there  were  of 
opinion  that  the  sudden  shock  of  a  glad  surprise  would 
be  more  conducive  to  the  recovery  of  Lord  Seaforth's 
powers  of  speech  and  movement  than  anything  else. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Godfrey,  "is,  what 
caused  my  uncle's  stroke  of  paralysis?" 

Andrew  looked  confused,  but  answered,  quietly,  "  My 
sister  told  me  all  about  it.  I  will  either  explain  it  all  to 
you  in  private  or  to  Mrs.  Seaforth ;  but  you  will  not,  I 
hope,  ask  me  to  do  so  in  presence  of  you  both." 

Hester  accordingly  retired  into  another  room  with 
Andrew,  and  after  some  minutes'  conversation  he  took 
his  leave,  and  she  returned  to  Godfrey's  bedside. 

"Can  you  bear  to  hear?"  she  said,  as  she  sat  down 
and  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "Oh,  my  darling,  you  have 
always  misjudged  him  so ;  you  have  never  valued  his 
deep  affection.  It  was  my  fault,  I  know  ;  but  you  will 
perhaps  realize  a  little  what  the  love  must  have  been  to 
cause  such  a  catastrophe  as  this.  For  he  thought,  he 
thinks  still,  that  it  is  you  of  whose  sad  and  terrible  end 
he  read  quite  suddenly." 

She  then  proceeded  to  give  the  whole  early  history  of 
the  two  brothers,  and  to  show  how  Lord  Seaforth  had 
been  made  to  suffer.  And  as  his  mother  proceeded  with 
her  tale,  pity  and  gratitude  at  last  woke  up  in  Godfrey's 
heart.  He  saw  how  he  had  failed  to  appreciate  his 


296  SEA  FORTH. 

uncle's  good  qualities,  and,  biassed  ever  by  a  deep-rooted 
prejudice,  founded  on  a  misconception,  failed  to  give  him 
his  due. 

Godfrey's  convalescence  now  proceeded  rapidly,  and 
in  the  course  of  a  week  he  was  well  enough  to  leave 
London  and  to  proceed  to  Seaforth.  The  day  before 
his  departure  the  three  girls  arrived,  and  joyful  indeed 
was  the  meeting  which  took  place  between  the  long- 
divided  brother  and  sisters. 


CHAPTER    LXII. 

THE   FIGURES    BY   LORD    SEAFORTH' S   BEDSIDE. 

LET  us  return  to  the  bedside  of  the  stricken  man,  to 
whom,  though  he  had  no  power  to  make  others  aware  of 
the  fact,  consciousness  of  what  had  passed,  and  of  what 
was  passing  around  him,  was  now  returning. 

He  had  no  wish  to  make  others  conscious  of  him.  He 
shrank  from  everyone,  more  especially  from  his  daughter, 
of  whose  watchful  form,  sitting  not  far  from  his  bed,  he 
was  fully  aware.  How  came  she  to  be  there?  Why  did 
she  care  to  watch  and  tend  him?  What  mattered  it 
whether  he  lived  or  died  ?  least  of  all  to  her  ?  He  had 
driven  the  man  she  loved  to  a  cruel  death.  By  him,  by 
his  harshness,  Godfrey  had  been  hunted  to  a  terrible  end ; 
and  now  what  mattered  anything?  How  quiet  she  sits  ! — 
always  so  quiet  and  silent !  How  can  she  sit  there  at  all  ? 
How  can  she  bear  to  be  near  him?  He  wondered  some- 
times if  it  were  really  Joan  or  only  a  figure. 

Such  a  longing  to  hear  her  say  she  forgave  him  his  part 


SEA  FORTH.  297 

in  the  terrible  transaction  came  over  him  that  he  tried 
one  day  to  attract  her  attention.  He  tried  to  say, 
"Joan."  But  no  sound  came.  He  tried  again, — an  un- 
intelligible murmur,  which  he  heard  himself,  but  which 
did  not  attract  her  attention. 

Good  God  !  was  his  power  of  speech  gone  ?  Was  he 
never  to  be  able  to  express  his  contrition,  never  to  ask 
her  pardon  for  his  share  in  the  sorrows  of  her  life  ?  Oh, 
wretched  man  that  he  was !  wretched  life,  wretched  end  ! 
"This  was  how  God  had  dealt  with  him  :"  laid  him  on  a 
bed  of  helplessness,  unable  to  move  or  speak,  and  said, 
"  Lie  there  face  to  face  with  God  and  think." 

And  he  did.  Like  a  map  unrolled  before  him  his  past 
life  rose  before  his  eyes,  and  he  realized  at  last  what  a 
fiasco  it  had  been.  What  a  long  course  of  self-will  and 
failure  !  What  wheel  within  wheel  of  wilful  mistakes  and 
their  inevitable  consequences  !  As  husband  and  as  father 
how  wilful,  how  hard  he  had  been  !  How  determined  he 
had  been,  and  how  proud  of  being  determined,  about 
many  things  which  now  seemed  unimportant !  Revenging 
himself  all  his  life  long  on  his  wife  for  her  early  deception 
by  his  systematic  neglect  of  her  sons.  How  proud  he  had 
always  been  of  his  consistency  in  that  matter,  and  what  a 
waste  of  life  it  seemed  now  ! 

Then  his  daughter.  Revenge  again.  And  for  what? 
First  for  the  fact  of  her  sex,  and  then  for  an  accidental 
likeness.  How  senseless,  how  wicked  it  was  !  And  the 
inevitable  consequence,  the  just  retribution  ?  He  had 
irretrievably  alienated  his  only  child.  Her  confidence 
and  her  affection  were  lost  to  him  forever.  Wife  and 
child  both  hardened  against  him  !  Poisoned  forever  those 
pure  sources  of  affection. 

Yet  they  could  love.  How  his  wife  had  loved  her  boys  ! 
And  his  daughter — ah  !  how  lovely  her  eyes  had  looked 


298  SEAFORTH. 

that  day  when  she  spoke  of  him  who  was  gone,  when  she 
stood  champion  for  his  rights  so  boldly ! 

Poor  child  !  There  she  sits,  so  quiet  and  silent.  He 
fancied  he  could  move  his  arm  a  little.  He  lifted  it  up, 
and  tried  to  make  a  sign.  He  took  hold  of  the  heavy 
curtain  ;  it  moved  ;  it  shook  the  hangings  above. 

And  Joan  moved  too.  She  started  and  looked  up.  She 
is  coming  !  Oh,  God  !  how  shall  he  bear  the  grief,  the 
reproach  in  her  face,  the  mute  sorrow  and  despair  in  her 
eyes? 

She  is  coming.  She  is  quite  near  now.  She  is  bending 
over  him  to  speak.  How  is  this  ?  Her  face  is  beaming 
with  joy,  her  eyes  are  suffused  with  happy  tears. 

"Dear  father!"  she  is  saying,  very  softly,  "do  you 
know  me  at  last?  Can  you  listen,  father,  to  what  I  have 
to  say?  Godfrey  is  alive  and  well.  It  was  your  brother's 
death  you  read." 

After  that  nothing  is  very  clear  to  him  for  some  time. 
Confused  figures  swim  before  his  eyes ;  young  girlish  forms 
flit  in  and  out  of  his  room. 

Hester  comes  sometimes  and  smiles  upon  him, — Hester 
as  he  remembers  her  on  the  night  of  Godfrey's  flight ; 
and  then  again  sometimes  another  Hester,  a  young  girlish 
Hester,  the  Hester  of  old,  with  the  light  step  of  youth 
and  its  gay,  dancing  expression  in  her  face.  What  does 
it  all  mean  ?  Perhaps  Joan  will  tell  him. 

He  motions  her  once  more  to  his  side,  and  tries  to  ex- 
press in  his  eyes  the  question  his  poor  maimed  tongue 
refuses  to  utter.  And  in  a  low,  thrilling  voice  she  tells 
him  at  last  the  meaning  of  it  all;  tells  him  such  a  won- 
drous tale  of  self-devotion  and  self-sacrifice,  that  in  his 
bewilderment  and  agitation  he  tries  to  put  out  his  trem- 
bling hands  to  stop  her,  that  he  may  have  time  to  think  of 
it  a  while.  But  she  goes  on.  With  all  a  loving  woman's 


SEAFORTH.  299 

pride  and  joy  in  the  noble  conduct  of  the  man  she  loves, 
she  tells  the  tale  to  its  very  ending,  and  then  her  figure 
disappears  from  his  bedside  and  her  place  is  empty. 

Who  is  this  standing  where  she  has  so  lately  been?  this 
tall,  noble  figure,  with  the  beauty  of  manhood  added  to 
the  grace  of  youth ;  this  well-known  face,  from  which  all 
sternness  has  departed  ;  these  dark  eyes,  from  which 
every  trace  of  coldness  and  antagonism  has  fled ;  whose 
deep,  rich  voice  sounds  in  the  silence  with  the  old  familiar 
name,  unheard  so  long?  "  Uncle  Harold  !" 

A  wild  struggle  for  speech,  an  unintelligible  sound; 
another, — one  more  effort, — and  there  bursts  from  his 
lips  a  word,  stammering,  indeed,  incoherent,  but  still  a 
word, — "  Godfrey  !" 

"Thank  God,  dear  Uncle  Harold,"  says  the  beloved 
voice  of  his  darling,  "your  speech  is  restored  to  you. 
We  shall  all  be  happy  now !" 


CHAPTER    LXIII. 

THE   MEETING   OF   THE   LOVERS    IN   THE   OLD   PICTURE- 
GALLERY. 

COME  we  to  the  old  picture-gallery  once  more,  where, 
in  the  moonlight  which  floods  it  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  the  reunited  lovers  are  standing  hand  in  hand,  to 
be  parted  this  time  never  again  ! 

Here  again,  as  once  before,  with  "Godfrey,  Earl  of 
Seaforth,"  looking  down  upon  them,  and  the  groups  of 
children  round,  he  vows  himself,  from  this  moment,  to 
devote  his  life  to  her,  and  to  the  endeavor  to  make  her 


3oo 


SEAFORTH. 


happy ;  to  atone  to  her  not  only  for  those  early  sorrows 
of  which  he  had  been  the  innocent  cause,  but  for  that 
added  suffering  which  his  peculiar  life  and  circumstances 
had  entailed  upon  her, — for  the  long,  long  years  of  lone- 
liness, for  his  seeming  desertion,  for  his  broken  vows,  for 
his  enforced  leaving  her  in  ignorance  and  apparent  want 
of  trust  and  confidence. 

What  the  temptation  had  been  in  that  interview  in  the 
meadows  to  trust  her  with  his  secret  he  could  never  tell 
her ;  what  it  had  cost  him  to  refuse  her  entreaty  to  reveal 
to  her  the  mystery  lying  on  his  life  he  could  never  say, — 
what  the  longing  had  been  to  hear  her  say  she  still  be- 
lieved in  him,  in  the  teeth  of  all  the  evidence  against 
him.  But  he  had  felt  bound  to  resist  the  temptation, 
feeling  that  it  would  not  be  right  to  put  her  into  such  a 
false  position, — to  make  her,  as  it  were,  a  participator  in 
a  fraud. 

It  had  been,  he  told  her,  the  most  bitter  part  of  all  the 
bitterness  his  chosen  path  had  entailed  upon  him  to  feel 
that  he  was  deserting  her,  that  he  was  leaving  her  to  her 
fate.  He  had  felt,  he  said,  like  the  captain  who  deserts 
the  sinking  ship,  leaving  the  women  and  children  on 
board.  And  yet,  at  the  time,  it  was  the  only  thing  to  be 
done.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 

But  now  with  clean  hands  and  a  vindicated  character 
he  stands  before  her ;  and  now  he  may  take  up  the  vows 
he  had  broken,  take  up  forever  the  loving  task  he  had 
once  been  forced  to  lay  down.  Now  may  he  take  her  life 
into  his  own  safe-keeping,  into  the  shelter  of  his  own  love 
and  care.  Now  may  it  be  his  to  devote  his  life  to  flood 
her  path  with  love  and  sunshine,  and  to  make  its  radiant 
light  atone  for  all  past  darkness.  Now  may  their  young 
dreams  have  a  bright  fulfilling ;  fame  and  distinction  for 
one,  tender  devotion  for  the  other,  love  and  happiness  for 


SEA  FORTH. 


301 


both.  Now  may  they  reap  the  harvest  of  happy  memo- 
ries ;  golden  days  of  light  and  love  may  be  theirs  once 
more  !  And  as  the  full  realization  of  the  dream  of  joy 
he  painted  burst  upon  the  vision  of  little  Joan,  she  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand  like  one  dazzled,  while  she  mur- 
mured, "  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  happiness.  Oh,  God- 
frey !  how  is  it  that  you  love  me  so?" 

"  Could  I  help  it?"  was  his  loving  answer  as  he  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  and  poured  forth  new  vows  of  love  and 
devotion.  The  sound  of  the  old  familiar  cry  that  she  had 
been  wont  to  address  to  the  picture  beneath  which  they 
stood  caused  for  a  moment  the  memory  of  her  forlorn 
childhood  to  sweep  like  a  cold  blast  over  her  soul ;  but  it 
was  quickly  succeeded  by  such  a  rush  of  gladness  as  made 
the  present  and  the  future,  by  contrast,  seem  almost  over- 
poweringly  bright. 

"Some  moments  may 

With  bliss  repay 
Unnumbered  hours  of  pain." 

And  from  that  moment  the  very  memory  of  her  past 
troubles  grew  dim  in  the  eyes  of  little  Joan. 


302  SEA  FORTH. 

CHAPTER    LXIV. 
GODFREY'S  TWENTY-SIXTH  BIRTHDAY. 

ONCE  again  is  Seaforth  alive  with  rejoicings ;  once 
again  made  bright  for  feasting  and  hospitality.  A  year 
has  passed  away,  and  it  is  Godfrey's  twenty-sixth  birth- 
day. 

All  our  friends  are  congregated  to  celebrate  his  coming 
of  age.  Colin  is  there,  now  openly  affianced  to  Olive ; 
and  Andrew  is  there,  a  mere  shadow  on  the  flitting  form 
of  pretty  little  Venetia;  Mr.  and  Lady  Margaret  Cart- 
wright,  and  their  sons ;  Lord  and  Lady  Ainsbro' ;  Edward 
Manners;  and  last,  though  not  least,  the  little  pair, — 
Marion  and  Bertie. 

Lady  Ainsbro's  eye  rests  with  pride  and  satisfaction  on 
her  eldest  son  and  the  lovely  girl  with  whom  he  is  talk- 
ing; for,  in  the  year  which  has  gone  by,  he  has  sought 
and  won  the  hand  of  Hester  Seaforth,  Lord  Seaforth's 
eldest  and  favorite  niece ;  and  Marion  and  Bertie  are 
consoled  for  their  previous  disappointment  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  Joan  will  be  a  "sort  of  kind  of  sister"  after  all. 

It  is  a  joyful  day,  and  will  long  be  remembered  by  all 
who  took  part  in  it. 

Towards  evening  Lord  Seaforth  sent  for  his  two  step- 
sons to  the  library,  and,  in  the  faltering,  stammering 
language  which  was  all  he  had  now  at  his  command,  he 
declared  his  intention  of  paying  off  all  the  burdens  on 
Colin's  estate  in  Scotland,  and  of  giving  his  niece  Olive 
a  dowry  of  sixty  thousand  pounds  on  her  wedding-day. 
He  further  expressed  his  wish  that  Colin  should  stand  for 


SEA  FORTH. 


3°3 


his  own  county  at  the  approaching  election,  and  his  hope 
that  he  would  allow  him  the  satisfaction  of  paying  his 
election-expenses.  Turning  to  Andrew,  he  informed  him 
that  the  present  incumbent  of  Seaforth  had  been  appointed 
to  the  head-mastership  of  one  of  the  great  public  schools, 
and  that  the  living  was  now  vacant.  He  begged  Andrew, 
therefore,  to  accept  it,  adding  that  he  would  rather  have 
him  as  rector  of  Seaforth  than  any  other  man  in  Eng- 
land. He  concluded  by  a  touching  allusion  to  their 
mother's  love  for  them  and  her  deep  interest  in  their 
welfare. 

The  young  men  wrung  his  hand  in  silence.  They  were 
too  much  moved  to  speak. 

Lord  Seaforth  has  learned  at  last  the  hardest  and  se- 
verest lesson  which  man  here  below  is  called  upon  to 
learn, — submission  to  the  will  of  God.  Godfrey's  course 
had  first  impressed  him  with  the  reality  of  religion,  its 
beauty,  its  manliness,  and  its  power.  And  as  he  lay  on 
his  bed  of  helplessness,  during  the  long  months  of  con- 
valescence, the  conviction  had  come  to  him  that  his 
nephew's  character  was  his  own,  ennobled,  exalted,  and 
purified  by  religion. 

Godfrey  had  made  a  hard  life  easy  by  submitting  to  it, 
while  he  had  rendered  life  doubly  difficult  by  rebelling 
against  it.  How  religion  would  have  softened  and  beau- 
tified his  character,  drawn  out  and  made  noble  all  that 
had  been  either  repressed  or,  worse  still,  perverted ! 
Drawn  out  the  good  in  those  who  came  in  contact  with 
him,  too;  while  he,  on  the  contrary,  had  drawn  out  every- 
thing that  was  bad.  Medusa-like,  he  had  hardened  and 
turned  to  stone  every  one  who  had  had  anything  to  do 
with  him ;  and  in  his  wife's  case  he  had,  alas !  had  the 
fatal  power  of  drawing  out  and  intensifying  all  the  faults 
of  her  character. 


304  SEA  FORTH. 

And  in  the  sorrow  of  his  spirit  he  had  compared  him- 
self with  Godfrey,  and  had  realized  that  it  was  religion 
which  had  been  the  moving  spring  of  all  his  actions,  and 
that  it  was  this  which  had  constituted  the  difference  in 
characters  by  nature  alike,  and  had  resulted  in  one  in  a 
life  of  self-will,  and  in  the  other  in  a  life  of  self-sacrifice. 
And  he  had  cried  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night,  "Give 
me  this  strength  !  Show  me  this  power !  Teach  me  how 
to  gain  this  peace  !" 

Many  were  the  resolutions  he  had  made  that  everything 
should  be  very  different  if  he  were  spared  to  begin  again  ; 
that  he  would  for  the  future  be  content  to  be  a  mere 
cipher — as  no  doubt  his  physical  infirmities  would,  to  a 
great  extent,  necessitate — and  resign  all  power  into  God- 
frey's hands;  give  himself  no  quarter,  but  bit  by  bit 
atone  for  every  hard  act  of  his  past  life,  and  make  every- 
where restitution  and  satisfaction. 

He  expected  to  find  it  hard  ;  but  he  found  it  easy.  He 
came  armed  to  the  fight,  and  found  no  foe  to  contend 
with  !  For  he  had  by  that  time  realized  that  the  hardest 
taskmaster  a  man  can  have  is  his  own  unbending  pride 
and  self-will,  when  he  lets  them  master  and  overcome 
him  ;  "  that  of  whom  a  man  is  overcome,  of  the  same  is 
he  brought  in  bondage;"  and,  standing  fast  now  in  the 
"  liberty  wherewith  Christ  has  made  him  free,"  he  will 
be  entangled  in  that  yoke  no  more. 

The  sun  went  down  that  evening  on  many  a  happy 
head,  and  on  three  young  couples  whose  lives  were  shortly 
to  be  linked  together. 

Ere  night  fell,  a  fourth  was  added  to  their  number. 

"Godfrey,"  said  Andrew  Fraser,  advancing  to  his 
brother-in-law  elect,  leading  Venetia  by  the  hand,  "I 
have  come  to  ask  you  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  my  head. 
I  was  once,"  he  went  on,  more  gravely,  looking  affection- 


SEAFORTH. 


3°5 


ately  at  Joan,  who  was  standing  at  Godfrey's  side,  "I 
was  once  t*he  indirect  means  of  separating  you  from  my 
sister.  I  have  now  come  to  ask  you  to  give  me  yours" 

"  He's  the  villain  in  the  piece,  isn't  he?"  said  Venetia, 
clinging  to  her  brother,  and  looking  pleadingly  into  his 
face;  "but  you  will  return  good  for  evil,  I  know." 

"Take  her,"  answered  Godfrey,  tenderly,  putting  his 
little  sister's  hand  into  Andrew's,  "and  may  God's  bless- 
ing rest  on  you  both." 


CHAPTER    LXV. 

A   PEEP   INTO   THE   FUTURE. 

AND  now  let  us  take  a  peep  into  the  future,  at  Lord 
Seaforth's  quiet  and  happy  old  age. 

He  lived  long  enough  to  see  his  grandsons  playing  on 
the  green  lawns  of  Seaforth,  making  the  old  place  ring 
with  their  young  voices  from  morning  till  night,  and  to 
rejoice  in  the  thought  that,  under  the  wise  and  loving 
control  of  such  a  father  and  such  a  mother  as  theirs, 
there  was  no  fear  that  a  graceless  vaurien  would  ever  again 
darken  the  pages  of  the  family  history. 

He  lived  long  enough  to  see  his  beloved  nephew  and 
son-in-law  the  brightest  ornament  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  to  hear,  as  he  sat  in  the  gallery,  trembling 
with  pride  and  delight,  some  of  those  bursts  of  oratory 
which  soon  made  his  name  famous. 

It  was  a  familiar  sight  to  all  the  habitues  of  the  House 
to  see  the  old  man,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  son-in-law, 
being  settled  comfortably  in  his  seat  before  the  debate 
26* 


306  SEAFORTH. 

began  ;  and  it  was  well  known  that  he  would  remain  there 
for  hours,  contented  and  absorbed,  till  his  son-in-law  was 
at  leisure  to  come  and  take  him  away  again.  With  his 
hands  crossed  on  the  top  of  his  stick,  and  his  chin  on  his 
hands,  he  would  sit,  his  eyes  intent  on  the  figure  in  the 
scene  below,  his  ear  strained  to  catch  every  word  which 
fell  from  its  lips. 

It  was  his  pride  and  joy  to  see  how,  the  moment  God- 
frey rose  in  his  place  and  the  rumor  spread  that  he  was 
on  his  feet,  members  came  flocking  in  from  all  directions 
and  the  House  was  soon  filled.  It  was  his  to  be  an  ex- 
ultant witness  of  the  power  wherewith  Godfrey  held  all 
hanging  on  his  words  with  the  most  eager  attention, 
while  the  deepest  silence  reigned  in  the  House,  so  that 
his  clear,  quiet  voice  was  distinctly  heard  in  every  part. 

His  speeches  were  as  rare  as  they  were  beautiful.  He 
was  ever  ready  to  make  way  for  others,  and  to  resign  the 
task  of  speaking  to  them.  He  cared  little  who  had  the 
credit  of  bringing  the  subject  forward,  provided  only  it 
were  brought  forward  as  it  should  be. 

He  considered  two  qualifications  indispensable  for 
speaking :  to  have  his  subject  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  to 
be  deeply  and  thoroughly  interested  in  it.  Except  under 
these  conditions  he  never  spoke  :  never  for  a  useless  dis- 
play of  oratory. 

Living  thus  to  see  the  realization  of  all  his  dreams  and 
ambitions,  and  to  receive  from  those  he  loved  all  the 
affection  and  devotion  for  which  he  had  so  long  vainly 
craved,  Lord  Seaforth  experienced,  in 

Evening's  calm  light, 

all  that  he  had  never  found  in 

The  wild  freshness  of  morning. 


SEAFORTH.  307 

Then,  tended  by  loving  hands,  and  surrounded  by  loving 
faces,  he  died. 

Let  us  look  a  stage  further  ere  we  close,  and  see  God- 
frey a  Cabinet  Minister  and  one  of  the  greatest  statesmen 
of  the  day.  He  is  known  far  and  wide  as  an  earnest  and 
true-hearted  man,  one  on  whose  judgment  all  rely,  and 
of  whose  uprightness  and  right-mindedness  there  is  no 
question.  Friend  and  opponent  alike  value  him  as  much 
for  his  singleness  of  purpose  and  large-hearted  liberality 
as  for  his  powers  of  oratory  and  all  his  many  gifts.  He 
is  ever  ready  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  all  shades 
of  political  opinion,  and  to  give  each  its  just  weight  and 
consideration. 

Such  is  our  hero  in  his  public  life.  Let  us  follow  him 
now  into  his  private  life,  into  his  own  happy  home,  into  the 
old  picture-gallery,  where  "Godfrey,  Earl  of  Seaforth," 
looks  down  upon  his  living  Godfreys  and  Harolds,  and 
Joans  and  Bridgets,  romping  and  playing  hand  in  hand. 

The  old  place  rings  now  with  glad  young  voices  and 
merry  shouts  of  laughter,  where  once  it  rang  sadly  to  the 
cry  of  a  neglected  child. 

And  dearer  to  Godfrey's  heart  than  all  that  group  of 
happy  children  is  that  once  neglected  child.  A  feeling 
akin  to  envy  of  his  own  boys'  and  girls'  happy  childhood 
will  come  over  him  sometimes  as  he  sees  them  at  their 
play,  thinking  how  their  young  mother's  early  life  was 
spent.  Again  there  will  arise  within  him  the  longing  to 
atone  to  her  for  all  the  sorrows  of  her  life,  the  desire  to 
keep  the  wind  from  blowing  on  her  too  roughly,  to  strew 
the  path  of  her  life  with  flowers. 

Is  it  only  a  vague  longing,  or  does  he  carry  it  out? 
We  will  put  our  hero  to  the  test.  We  have  heard  his 
vows  in  the  picture-gallery :  we  will  see  how  those  vows 
have  been  kept. 


308  SEAFORTH. 

For  in  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  there  is  not  the  flash 
and  the  fire  and  the  excitement  which  in  such  hours  bring 
words  of  love  and  devotion  so  easily  to  the  lips.  Many 
a  lover's  vow  has  in  this  world  been  spoken  deep  and 
sincere  in  its  meaning  at  the  time.  But  wait  till  the 
words  have  been  tested,  wait  till  the  love  has  been  tried ; 
wait  till  the  cares  of  life  and  its  troubles,  and  the  wear 
and  tear  of  existence,  have  worked  their  canker  into  the 
fair  bud  of  life's  promise.  Holy  and  true  and  enduring 
is  the  love  which  comes  out  strong  from  the  trial. 

So  we  will  put  our  hero  to  the  test.  We  will  watch  him 
in  the  daily  routine  of  domestic  existence,  which  is,  after 
all,  the  arena  where  lovers'  vows  are  tried  and  tested, 
where  self  is  met  and  vanquished,  where  noble  deeds  are 
done.  What  do  we  see  ? 

The  eye  that  ever  on  her  fondly  lingers,  the  heart  with 
which  the  thought  of  her  is  ever  full,  the  tender  and 
thoughtful  consideration  which  reads  her  wishes  almost 
before  she  knows  them  herself,  and,  anticipating  thus  her 
every  thought,  strives  to  give  her  all  of  which  he  thinks 
she  is  desirous,  and  to  keep  far  from  her  all  that  he  deems 
may  give  her  pain.  While  it  is  his  will  that  every  joy 
shall  with  her  be  divided,  he  would  take  the  cares  of  life 
on  his  own  strong  shoulders  and  let  her  go  free. 

Yes,  he  can  stand  the  test.  Not  lightly  those  words 
were  spoken  ;  nobly  have  those  vows  been  kept.  Love 
is  not  worthy  the  name  unless  there  enter  into  it  the 
element  of  self-sacrifice  ;  and  his  is  a  love  with  which 
no  thought  of  self  is  ever  mingled, — a  tenderness  which, 
by  sharing,  softens  every  sorrow,  heightens  and  increases 
every  joy, — a  love  which,  come  what  may,  and  arise  what 
will, — as  in  the  happiest  domestic  existence  the  cares  and 
trials  of  life  must  sometimes  enter,  mistakes,  misfortunes, 
and  their  attendant  worries  will  sometimes  come, — never 


SEA  FORTH.  309 

suffers  the  shadow  of  blame  to  rest  upon  her.  In  his  eyes 
she  can  do  no  wrong.  Let  who  may  be  in  fault,  never 
her. 

No;  she  is  forever  sacred,  forever  guarded  and  shel- 
tered, forever  shielded  from  anything  which  could  give 
her  pain,  or  mar  for  a  moment  the  flood  of  sunshine  with 
which  it  is  his  joy  to  encompass  her,  in  which  it  is  the 
aim  of  his  life  she  should  dwell. 

Surely  such  love  as  this  must  make  amends  even  for  a 
lonely  and  a  loveless  girlhood,  even  for  years  of  seeming 
neglect  and  desertion,  even  for  a  childhood  branded  with 
the  words  "Not  wanted." 


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